


Distribution and Habitat

by cockymclaughlin



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Anal Sex, Assassin!Link, Blood, Blow Jobs, Death, Disturbing Themes, Gore, Gun Violence, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Thief!Rhett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-09-21 14:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 60,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9553553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cockymclaughlin/pseuds/cockymclaughlin
Summary: Frank had said, “Don’t let that boy get you cornered, Rhett. Don’t let him get his hands on you. He’s small, but he packs a wallop. You best stay on your toes, and you best keep him in your sight. If I don’t hear from you in three days, I’ll let your family know.”





	1. Come Into My Parlor

**Author's Note:**

> i'm extending a very heartfelt and incredibly aggressive 'thank you' to [egocentrifuge](http://egocentrifuge.tumblr.com/) for planting the seed from which this sprouted. had she not encouraged me to elaborate on what was once two drabbles barely over 400 words a piece, they would have stayed there forever. 
> 
> you can find me over at [tumblr](http://cockymclaughlin.tumblr.com/) if that's something you're into.

Rhett’s good at his job. 

Despite his size, he’s quick, nimble when he needs to be. He can slip in and out of a place undetected. He’s also a smooth-talker. He’s easy to trust, with wide, kind eyes and a soft voice. It makes things easier. 

The problem is that he knows Charles is also good at his job.  _Link,_ he reminds himself,  _He told you his name was Link._

The job is easy enough, routine, really. Except when Link is inviting Rhett to come home with him, his smile is just a little bit dark, right on the cusp of sinister. He should have backed out right then. 

The zeros behind the six he’s getting paid for this urge him on, though. He knows about Charles Neal III. He knows he’s an assassin, and that he’s a  _good_  assassin. He also knows, from their conversation tonight, that he hates spicy food, plays the recorder, and has a dog named Jade. 

So, as an aside, Rhett’s good at his job. 

Because of that, he finds himself sneaking into the room he knows the box is supposed to be in, regardless of how good Link may be at his job. What’s in the box is a secret, one that is supposed to be kept a secret. The temptation to peak is strong, but he knows he won’t. If he does, he’ll end up keeping it. Last time that happened, he’d ended up with a price on his head, so it’s better if he doesn’t. 

It’s hidden. He doesn’t have a long time to look for it, as he’d told Link he had to go to the bathroom. The time frame he has before the other man gets suspicious is small, so he’s got to work fast. But he’s already been through three drawers, the locks on them harder to pick than he’s used to. 

“Dammit!” he’s muttering, wiping at the sweat on his temples, when the fourth drawer turns up empty as well. 

“Have you tried under my mattress?” Link’s voice startles him enough that he’s pulling out the knife he keeps strapped to his side without a second thought. “Whoa, man. Put that away. Let’s have a chat, yeah?” 

Link nods his head to the gun he’s holding that Rhett hadn’t even noticed. 

“Dammit,” he says again, putting his hands in the air, crouching to put the knife on the floor before something escalates. 

“Good boy,” Link says with a smile. “Now. I think it’s time you tell me who you’re working for.” There’s a pause. “And, while we’re at it, how I can convince you to work with me instead.” 

He can feel his heartbeat in his throat. 

There’s bile there, too, but he ignores it desperately. He sends a silent prayer up to whoever or whatever is listening, and he takes a deep breath. 

Link’s got a smile on his face, soft and sickly-sweet. His teeth are out, and that’s what scares Rhett the most. When he says, “You feel like answering me today or am I going to have to actually use this thing?” Rhett feels himself start to sweat. 

He chooses his words carefully, feels the vowels round out too harshly. His old accent slips out, like it always does when he’s afraid. “Who says I’m working for anyone?” 

“A pretty boy like you? Y’all are always working for someone, darlin’,” Link tells him, eyes roving over the expanse of the room. “Who is it, Rhett?” 

His heart jack-hammering in his chest and his palms sweating like crazy, he keeps his eyes where they need to be: on that trigger finger curled so delicately around the handle of the gun. It means he doesn’t really want to shoot him. It means Rhett can still talk his way out of this. 

Rhett also watches the trembling, which shows signs of unsteadiness. He goes through the profile in his head, tries to remember the crime scene photos he hadn’t really looked at too hard. Link likes things to be quick, he knows, likes there not to be a lot of blood. So, at least his family won’t have to worry about him being mutilated or anything. 

“C’mon, Rhett. Talk to me, baby,” Link teases, and puts his arm down, holds the gun at his side instead. “Who’re you working for?” 

“It’s a job, man,” Rhett says, inwardly cursing the way he sounds so shaky. “I didn’t get a name.” 

“They all have names,” Link insists. He sounds so goddamn condescending that Rhett actually feels lesser. “Or, well, the good ones do. The ones who want what you’re looking for do. And they’re all way too proud not to give them to the people they hire to do their dirty work.” 

He pulls something out of his pocket, and Rhett notices it’s a box, small and delicate. It looks sort of like a ring box. Link tosses it to him, and Rhett lets it drop to the floor, doesn’t want to do anything to make Link pull that trigger. 

“Pick it up. Look inside,” Link tells him. And when Rhett doesn’t move, he says, “You don’t trust me? My heart is breaking, Rhett.”  

Rhett’s arms stay up, stay above his head, and he doesn’t move at all. He doesn’t even really think he’s breathing much. He’s starting to get a little lightheaded. “I’m gonna stay like this until that gun is gone, if that’s alright with you,” he says.

The look on Link’s face never changes, stays nonchalant and predatory. Rhett remembers everything he learned about him, about how he works, and he wants to laugh when he realizes Frank—and that’s who sent him out, that’s who hired him—warned him about this.

Frank had said, “Don’t let that boy get you cornered, Rhett. Don’t let him get his hands on you. He’s small, but he packs a wallop. You best stay on your toes, and you best keep him in your sight. If I don’t hear from you in three days, I’ll let your family know.”

The gun comes up again, his slender finger curling around the outside of the trigger this time, too close for comfort, and Rhett starts to tremble. He hates guns. He hates them even more when they’re pointed at his face.

“Nah, I think I want you to bend down and pick that box up,” Link says. “And look inside. Like I told you to, boy.”

It takes everything in him to bend his knees, to strain and keep his back straight, his left hand high in the air while he struggles to grab the box with his right. As soon as he gets his fingers on it, he hears the clatter of the gun being put on the desk. He jumps at first, not really registering what Link is doing, but he exhales heavily as soon as he realizes.

“See what happens when you cooperate?” Link teases, and Rhett watches him take the gun apart easily, eyes flicking back and forth between what he’s doing and where Rhett is standing.

Rhett opens the box carefully, fully aware of Link’s eyes on him the entire time. Inside, there’s a slip of paper, small and old, stained with smears of blood that Rhett tires not to think about. Furrowing his brow, he grabs it, unfolds it, and is met with numbers only very faintly visible.

Something doesn’t add up. “What is this?” he asks.

“That,” Link says, and he takes a step forward, “is a code, Rhett.”

Rhett takes a step back. “For what?”

Link takes another step forward, and they both know what dance they’re doing. Only, Rhett’s pretty sure he’s faster than Link, confident in his ability to slip away before he’d even be able to get his hands on him. His brain reminds him that the gun is taken apart, in pieces on the desk by the open door.

He’s safe for now.

Link cocks his head to the side, eyes going soft. “We really should talk.”

“We’re talking,” Rhett points out, slipping the paper back in the box, and reaching out to hand it to Link.

He gets waved off, and Link tells him, “I figured you worked so hard tonight, I might as well let you have it.”

He’s just going to pluck it off of Rhett’s corpse at the end of the night anyway, he supposes, so he tucks it into his back pocket and steels himself for whatever is coming next. And then his brain catches up with what just happened, and he’s asking, “ _This_ is it?” while he reaches to grab for it again.

Link’s nodding his head with a laugh. “Like I said: we should talk. The living room has got some nice couches.”

The thing about this situation is that it’s not the first time Rhett’s been in it. It is, however, probably the most terrifying, considering Link’s history. Rhett knows too much about this guy to feel comfortable falling back into any sort of nonchalance. He feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up every time he as much as looks at Rhett. Something about him, about what he’s done, about the way that he’s so sure, so confident, shakes Rhett down to the core. With shaky hands and some of the worst coordination Rhett’s ever seen on somebody doing this job, Link’s somehow managed to land himself a reputation of being absolutely petrifying.

And Rhett, right here on the receiving end of Link’s unwavering stare, that dominating personality, can vouch for all the rumors. He’d been nervous all night, but now that he’s caught, he’s just about ready to roll over and show his belly.

 Even through all that, Rhett finds himself allowing Link to guide him through the house. Or, well, he’s forced into being guided through the house, really, one of Link’s hands pressed firmly to the curve of his spine, every one of his fingertips pressing heat into Rhett’s skin.

When Rhett was a little boy, he wanted to be a paleontologist.

Somehow, along the way, a wire had gotten crossed, and he was dropping out of college without telling his parents so he could move to California and help out a couple of guys he’d met. They promised him an insurmountable amount of money, enough to pay off his student debt, buy a house, and vacation to Tahiti for six months if he wanted. All he’d had to do was break into an older gentleman’s house, make his way to the second floor, and pick the lock to a room that held a painting. Someone else would snag the painting, but Rhett was the one responsible for getting the window open and making sure they didn’t get caught.

They didn’t.

Rhett did, though, at a fault of someone other than himself. And he’d spent eight days in that mansion, getting roughed up until they decided he wasn’t worth it, that he didn’t know enough to really be threat. He’d lucked out, even if the weekend did land him in the hospital for four days. And, at the end of it, he’d walked away with six and a half million dollars for all of his trouble at the ripe age of twenty-one. The metal plate in his hip asks him all the time if it was really worth it.

Since then, he’s worked more jobs than he’s comfortable admitting, done things he’s not proud of. As a rule, he tries to walk out of a job sans altercations. It doesn’t always work, but he’s never killed anyone.

Not a single person, in just about ten years, has died at Rhett’s hands. He’s walked away with bloody knuckles, a tooth or two buried in his fists, but nobody has ever died.

Right now, he thinks he might have to kill Link.

He doesn’t laugh when he thinks it, but he wants to. The idea of being the one to kill one of the most talked about assassins for _Frank_ of all people is hilarious. It’s not feasible. He’s screwed.

When Link sits him down on a plush couch, one that Rhett sinks into with a deep breath, he sits down across from him, plops down into the chair, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees.

“So,” he says, and pauses to smile at Rhett. “That name we were talking about earlier, and then onto the good stuff.”

“Frank,” Rhett says. Link’s going to kill him anyway, so there’s no point in keeping it a secret. Frank isn’t a threat, not for a second. He’s too fat and slow to kill Rhett himself, and too dumb to hire anyone else. “He lives somewhere in Guatemala, though, so that’s probably not his real name. But it’s the name he gave me four years ago, when we first worked together.”

“I know Frank,” Link says, nodding. He sits back in the chair, legs spread wide enough that Rhett catches a glimpse that makes him laugh bitterly.

“Are you getting off on this?”

The smile that spreads across Link’s face is almost as obscene as the wink he sends Rhett’s way before reaching down to not-so-subtly adjust himself in his pants. “Frank sent one of his boys my way a couple months back. You’ve probably seen him. Dark hair, tall, thin. Had a bullet in his eye.”

“Mike.” Rhett remembers the pictures, remembers seeing the crime scene photos, and wondering why Frank sent one of the new guys out for a job like that. And then he realized, almost instantly, that it was because Frank is known for being sloppy. It’s how Rhett gets so much money out of him for easy jobs.

“Mm,” Link hums in agreement. “Mike wasn’t after what you’re after. Frank seems to have gotten himself a nice little inventory of my toys.”

Rhett shrugs, eyes wandering a bit, looking for exits that he may not have caught when they first got here. He was a little distracted before, and now his senses are on high alert.

“Frank has some unsavory ways of getting what he wants,” Rhett tells him. A thought crosses his mind for the first time, and he asks, “You work with anyone?”

“Sometimes,” Link says. “But mostly, no.”

“How’d you get into this?” It’s not a good question to ask, one that usually would get his ass kicked, but he has a feeling Link doesn’t mind much. He seems like the kind of person who’s a step ahead of everyone, so questions like that wouldn’t do too much damage to him.

Sure enough, Link grins, shrugs a little bit before sighing. “A messy job. There were three of us involved, and four of them. Somehow, I found myself holding a knife to some kid’s throat, and barking orders until the situation defused enough for us to weasel our way out. Next thing I know, my boss is giving me a gun and telling me to shoot first, ask questions later.”

“You ever want out?” They all do. That’s the thing. Every last one of them wants out of this. But the money and the higher-ups keep them all in a choke hold. Rhett’s lucky in the aspect that he doesn’t have a boss. He takes jobs, a bit of a vagabond.

Link chuckles. “Not really.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too much fun.” His grin turns dark again, and Rhett sucks in a breath. “I don’t kill much anymore. I’m my own boss. Nobody really fucks with me because—Well, you know why. Why would I stop?”

“Moral high ground,” Rhett suggests.

Link sits back again, furrows his brows a little bit. “After everything you’ve done, everything you’ve seen, you still believe in morals?”

That’s a curious question, and it makes Rhett feel a little fuzzy. Maybe it’s the way he worded it, asking him if he _believed_ in them rather than if he still had them that makes it a little harder to answer. Of course he doesn’t have any, not anymore. Living like this takes that away from a person. It’s eat or be eaten, and you check your morals at the fucking door before you do anything. Enough time, and they disappear entirely.

But does he believe in them?

“No, I guess not,” he decides. “So, something else, then. Maybe you just get tired of it.”

God knows he’s tired of it, most days. Particularly days like today, when he gets caught with his hands down his pants and he’s got to finagle his way out before it blows up in his face. Today, in this particular situation, he’s praying for a time machine so he can go back, say no when Scott from Organic Chemistry asked him if he ever wondered what it would feel like to fly. He wants a redo, wants to go back and say no to all of this, wants to finish college like his momma wanted. He wants to be safe and sound at home and not staring down a man who could kill him in a second if he wanted to.

What Link says is, “Maybe. But you know that high, man. You think you’d ever get tired of that?” He’s right, and Rhett knows it.

Still, though. “One day. I know I’ll get tired of it, eventually. Living like this ain’t really living.”

Link sits forward again, gets a look in his eye that Rhett knows is supposed to be intimidating. It is.

“Where are you from?” is what he asks, and it takes Rhett by surprise. “Where are mom and dad at, Rhett?”

“Kentucky,” he lies, because that’s the one rule he gave himself. There isn’t a damn thing someone can do to him that will make him put his family in danger.

He’s a good liar, but so is Link. So he holds his breath, keeps the eye contact unwavering, and puts all of his energy into hoping that Link doesn’t call his bluff.

“You’re lying,” Link says, and every muscle in Rhett’s body contracts. His fight or flight instinct kicks into overdrive, and it takes everything in him not to punch Link in the face. But then Link says, “You’re good at that.”

“Lying?” Rhett asks, because there’s no use in arguing with him. He’s out of his element, playing a new game. He can feel his pulse hammering away.

Link nods his head. “How much is Frank paying you for this?”

Not enough, Rhett realizes. Not fucking enough for this, and his fingers itch to reach for the box in his back pocket. So, he does, and Link waits.

The paper inside is soft, and the numbers are thin and light, pencil fading after years of being passed between hands. It’s starting to make sense, on a level, but he still asks, “Why did you say we needed to talk?”

He notices other writing on the thin slip of paper, even fainter than the numbers, and Link draws his attention away before he’s able make it out.

“What did Frank tell you about the job?” he asks. Rhett looks up at him, notices he’s pulled his glasses off, raking a hand through his hair.

Rhett puts the paper back in the box, closes it, and puts the box on the coffee table between them. “Not much, really. He told me where you were known to hang out, and to be careful. Said I was looking for a box.”

“That’s pretty vague. Too much of a risk for most people.” He leans over to grab the box, and just like that, it’s out of Rhett’s grasp.

He says, “Risk keeps me young.”

Link smiles again, and he shakes his head with a chuckle. “You’re real ballsy, you know? Most guys, once they realize I know what they’re doing, tuck their tails between their legs and run. Not you, though. What does it take to scare you away?”

Rhett wipes his palms on his jeans, looks at Link in the eyes when he says, “Not much.”

“Good.” And then he says, “So, this little piece of paper Frank sent you out for. How much is he paying you for this? And, just so you know, I usually don’t ask more than once.”

“Four hundred,” Rhett says. It’s more than he usually gets for something this small. The name hadn’t intimidated him at the time, not until he was under Link’s thumb. Confidence got in the way, an arrogance that’s gotten him in trouble before. Here he is, hands tied behind his back. He’ll write this down as a learning experience.

Link whistles under his breath, mumbles, “Kinda short to be walking into the lion’s den, don’t you think?”

“You gonna sink your teeth into me?” he asks, quirking his eyebrow and cocking his head. The curiosity is genuine. Most people would have already torn him to shreds. So far, he’s not bleeding, and the gun is disassembled in a room down the hall. He doesn’t feel safe by any means, but he wants to know what Link’s angle is.

Licking his lips, Link eyes him carefully. After a beat, he says, “I was certainly trying to, in a different sense, before you started digging through my stuff.”

“What’s stopping you now?” Rhett was sort of enjoying himself before all of this. He’d be more than okay with going back to that, to having Link working his hands down the back of his jeans, those sharp teeth scraping down the side of his neck.

“Business opportunity,” Link says plainly. The tension is back, and Rhett instantly finds himself with his back against a wall.

Rhett huffs out a laugh. “I don’t—uh.”

The air between them shifts and Link sighs heavily.

“Frank has been a pain in my ass for a while now. I know what he’s looking for, and you’ve gotten much closer to it than anyone else ever has,” Link says. The box sits precariously in his lap. “I’ve seen your name around. And, if I’m not mistaken, I’m one of the very few who’ve caught you in the act, yes?”

Rhett nods. He’s good at his job.

“Right, so. What I’m thinking is that I can get you to ditch Frank.” He opens the box, pulls out the slip of paper. His thumb rubs over the numbers gently. “Four hundred is laughable. It’s an insult, to me and you.”

And _this_ game is one he’s so, indisputably used to. He’s a good gambler, an even better business man. He has a feeling Link is, too. In another life, they’d be incredible partners.

And then Link says, “Frank sent you here to die. I want you to know that. Everyone who’s ever gotten their hands on this has died. See this?” and he points to a smudged fingerprint on the left corner, brown and very obviously blood. “This is what you become when you try to steal this.”

“What makes me so different?” Rhett asks.

With a laugh, Link tells him, “Nothing, so far.”

It makes Rhett’s blood run cold, his chest ache, everything in him screaming to get out, get out, get out. He can’t, though. He’s trapped, and Link’s fingers are tight around his throat, keeping him on his toes for that last little bit of air seeping into his lungs, the only little bit of salvation he’s allowed.

With a nod, he says, “You’re giving me an ultimatum.”

Link shrugs, bites his bottom lip with a smile. “What can I say? I’m feeling generous tonight.”

Rhett sighs, lungs filling up painfully, and he holds it for a second. When he exhales, and rubs a hand over his face, he asks, “How much are you offering, and what exactly is on the table?”

“A steady income,” Link says, “And I won’t kill you. But I do need you to call Frank and tell him to kiss my ass for me. Just like that, too. Tell him ‘Charles Neal III says to kiss his ass.’”

“A steady income could mean anything, man. Give me something,” Rhett points out, pushing his luck, but Link just smiles. “My life is good, but.”

“Point taken.” Link tosses the box back on the coffee table. When Rhett doesn’t move to grab it, he says, “I just want you to do some jobs with me. I’ve got a few things on my radar that are just barely out of my reach. But with you at my side, I think we’d be able to get them done.”

The wink he shoots Rhett’s way makes him feel cheap, and the reality sort of settles in for the first time, really. He doesn’t think about it. Refusing to accept things, at this point, is his best bet of putting on those blinders and treating this like a job. If he keeps it in his head that this is just a job, this is just like when Frank calls him to do something, then he can get through this.

The thing is, Rhett hasn’t had a boss since he was in his late twenties. At thirty-five, he’s not exactly looking for one. Like Link, his name is out there and has a good enough of a reputation for people to know what to expect, to come to him and ask for help. He knows, on a deep level, that his own miscalculations, his own cockiness, got himself into this mess.

But it doesn’t make the sting of the bite hurt any less.

Link has sunk his teeth into him after all.

“Alright,” he says. “But how much?”

“An even million for each one.”

As soon as the words are out of Link’s mouth, Rhett’s heart skips a beat. Double and then some of what Frank was paying him for this, with the added security of walking out of here alive? It’s not a bad deal on paper. Being someone’s hustler? Not ideal.

He swallows the lump in his throat he’s telling himself isn’t his own pride, and says, “Deal.”

Link holds his hand out for Rhett to shake, and when he does, Link tugs him closer, gets up in his space. With a smile, he says, “Good choice, baby.”

Link’s lips are still soft, and he still tastes slightly like the whiskey they were drinking earlier. The kiss takes Rhett a little by surprise, but he can’t place why, exactly. It’s not until they’re pulling away that he realizes Link has managed to pull Rhett’s phone out of his back pocket.

He holds it out for Rhett and says, “Unlock it for me so we can call Frank and get this show on the road.

Rhett goes through the motions almost blindly, choosing to keep his attention and focus on Link instead, watching him out of the corner of his eye the whole time. Calling Frank at this time is going to be foolish. This early into the night, this quick into things, he’s bound to suspect something is up. But that’s what Link wants, isn’t it?

The phone starts ringing, and Link tells him to put it on speaker. As soon as he does, he tells Rhett, “And remember the part about kissing my ass, yeah?”

Rhett eyes him carefully, feels his stomach flip a few times before the ringing stops, and Frank’s gruff voice is on the other end, saying, “McLaughlin? What the fuck do you want?”

Link, watching him carefully, gets a dark look in his eyes, and motions for Rhett to talk. So, he says, “Hey, Frank. Yeah, man. I—uh. Listen, Frank. Neal says you can kiss his ass.”

There’s a roar from the other end, a loud smattering of unintelligible grunts and shouts, and Link grabs the phone from Rhett’s hand. Into the microphone he says, “Frank. Listen to me carefully.” Glass smashes, and Rhett hears Frank let out a slew of curses, three different languages flying out of him all at once. He knows he’s just lost. Rhett doesn’t blame him for being upset.

“Frank,” Link says again, his voice calm and low, a threat perched right on the edge of all of this. Once things quiet down on the other end, and all that’s ringing out is deep, heavy breaths, Link tells him, “He’s mine now, Frank. Keep sending me your boys. I’ll keep sending them back in little love letters from me to you.”

“No, you listen to me you little fucking freak—“

It’s all Frank gets out before Link is killing the call with a smooth, calm swipe of his thumb. He holds down the power button, shuts Rhett’s phone off, and chuckles softly. Eyes back on Rhett, he says, “Are you hungry?”


	2. Tag, You're It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and another huge 'thank you' to [egocentrifuge](http://egocentrifuge.tumblr.com/) for all of this, including her incredible [video edit](http://egocentrifuge.tumblr.com/post/156816260548/distribution-and-habitat-by-cockymclaughlin-what) she made for it. 
> 
> you can find me over at [tumblr](http://cockymclaughlin.tumblr.com/) if that's something you're into.

Rhett feels like he hasn’t seen the sun in months.

It’s not like he hasn’t been outside in the daytime, but something about the transition his life is making makes him feel as though he hasn’t appreciated the warmth of a beautiful, sunny, California day in a long, long time. The tacos he’s eating helps him feel better about the situation.

Stevie sitting across from him does, too.

Scrolling through her phone, she eyes him over her sunglasses and says, “You know how I feel about this stuff.”

He does know. He does, and he always feels bad bringing it up around her. But having that person who knows, who’s in on his big, dirty secret is too good of a feeling to keep his mouth shut. She doesn’t deserve to hear about it all, not about the crime scene photos or the guns being waved in his face or the cold, calm look on Link’s face the whole time he was on the phone with Frank that night. She doesn’t deserve to lose sleep over his fucked up, degenerate life, but.

But he’s got to have somebody. Stevie just so happened to fall into his life at the worst possible time, and she’s too kind-hearted to leave. Once, when he broke into her apartment after a rough night, she’d told him, “Listen, I’m willing to turn my head and stick my fingers in my ears about that stuff, but I want you to know that I expect you to treat me fairly.” He’s tried, and when he fails, she’s sure to let him know.

“I do know,” he says now, nodding his head and using his fork to scrape what’s left on his plate onto a chip. They opted to sit outside, Rhett insisting he felt too cramped and cagey inside the small building. “And I’m—“

“If you tell me you’re sorry, I’m going to slap you,” Stevie cuts him off, leaning down to grab her bag. “You don’t have to be sorry. You just have to promise me you’ll be safe.”

Avoiding eye contact, Rhett sighs and uses his straw to stir his drink around. “Yeah, about that.”

He hears Stevie groan, and furrows his brow. “Who is this guy, anyway? And this time I’m asking, so like. Full disclosure.”

“His name is Link, and let’s just say he doesn’t play nice,” Rhett says. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he swipes until he finds the pictures he has saved in a special folder on his phone, password protected for extra safety. He pulls up one of the less gruesome ones, hands it over to Stevie and nods when she gasps too loudly. “Yeah,” he agrees, taking his phone from her hands when she holds it out for him.

He notices she’s closed out of everything for him, and it makes his stomach twist just a little bit, the guilt settling in.  

“So, let me get this straight. Job goes south, this guy finds you snooping around, and all of a sudden you’re his bitch?”

Rhett snorts. “As always, so eloquently put. But, fair enough. Yes, for all intents and purposes.”

“But the big, angry guy who hired you to do this for him knows that you’re this guy’s bitch now. And he’s pissed, right?” She leans forward, steals one of Rhett’s chips, and narrows her eyes at him when he nods. “You don’t think big, angry guy is gonna try to do anything, do you?”

“I’m not scared of Frank,” Rhett says, swats at her hand when she goes for his drink. “I asked if you wanted anything else.”

“And I don’t.” She very pointedly takes another of his chips. “Alright, so _not_ scared of big, angry guy. Scared of this new guy?”

“New _assassin_ guy, so yeah. A little bit.”

And Stevie, who cries when she kills insects, who feeds anyone she possibly can, who Rhett confides in and opens up to and does his best to not drag into this whirlwind of a life—she looks at him and says, “So why don’t you just kill them both?”

He wants to laugh. It’s only for a fleeting second, then it’s gone and he’s left with a sour, slick feeling in his stomach. Instead, he takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw. He tells her, “Would you believe, ten years into this, and I’ve never killed anybody?”

“Maybe not directly.”

“Stephanie’s going straight for the jugular today, it seems,” Rhett says with a laugh that comes out too strangled to be real. “I guess you’re right, but—“

“I mean, there’s really not a ‘but’ to that statement, Rhett. Look, I’ve known you for—God, it’s been four years already, hasn’t it?—and out of those four years, three and a half of them have been spent with me worrying about you at night. I’m kind of tired of that. I’d like to get some decent sleep for once.” She smiles at a familiar face passing by them, a waitress that’s worked here for a couple of years. A little quieter, Stevie says, “Are you not tired of it?”

Rhett picks at his fingernails, lets the question mull over in his head a little bit. To say that she’s wrong would be a lie, and to admit that she’s right would put him in a position that meant he’d have to do something he’s uncomfortable with. And, beyond being uncomfortable with it, it’s just not possible. Killing Frank, maybe. But killing Link? Walking into that house with any intention other than bending over and obeying seems like a bad idea to Rhett.

“Professionally, what you’re propositioning is impossible. Between you and I, as friends, I would love nothing more than for this problem I’ve landed myself in to be erased,” is what he decides to tell her. “Stevie, I—. All I can promise right now is that I’m going to do my best. I need that to be enough for you.”

She narrows her eyes at him, snatches another one of his chips. And with a sigh, she says, “Okay.”

With the conversation ending in crumbs closely resembling the ones left on their plates, Rhett decides to stop picking, and comes up with a half-hearted excuse to cut things short. Before they depart, Stevie letting Rhett pay the bill in full, she tells him, “If you come up dead, I’ll kill this guy. I’ll kill both of them.”

She means it, her eyes serious and deadly, her tiny arms pulling him in close for a hug that smells like her house, her dog, her girlfriend, all safely tucked away from this bullshit. Eyes only a little wet, he buries his face in her neck and nods his head. He hasn’t done enough good in this world to deserve Stevie. There’s no way he’s put enough positive energy into the universe for it to have given him her unwavering friendship, her over-protective tendencies, her love and support and care. So he always holds on a little too tight, scared of what will happen if he lets go.

“See ya next time, big guy,” she says, patting him on the back when they part. As she’s walking away, she turns and shouts, “And call your mother!”

“Sure, sure,” Rhett laughs, waving at her.

He doesn’t call his mother.

In fact, he doesn’t even make it home. His phone vibrates in his pocket as he’s pulling into traffic, and when Link’s name pops up, he takes a steadying breath before answering.

“You remember where my house is, yeah?” is how the conversation starts, and it ends when Link tells him, “Come over. I’ve got a job for tonight. Buzz when you get to the gate.”

He doesn’t go home first, despite what his instincts tell him to do. Rhett knows himself well enough to be able to anticipate that, had he made the decision to go home, he would have stayed there. So instead, he drives straight to Link’s house, letting the nerves wash over him in hopes that they’ll be quelled by the time he gets there. Unfortunately, he realizes about ten minutes out that he’d require a horse tranquilizer to calm him down. And that’s not really his scene, so he just powers through it.

Link’s house is a lot more intimidating during the day time. He has a feeling that Link will be a little less intimidating, if the rules of life apply to him the same way they do to other people. It’s easier to handle scary things in the day time. The sun makes stuff easier to do, recharges all the right things in your body so that facing things like a skinny, lithe man in a Ninja Turtles t-shirt and women’s skinny jeans isn’t so hard anymore.

Link answers the door, hair still wet from a shower, barefoot, and that goddamn smirk solidly in place on his face. He opens the door, and steps aside to make room for Rhett to come in. “Welcome back,” he says. “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah, uh—I just got back from lunch. Thanks, though.”

The firm, warm pressure of Link’s hand on his lower back startles him for a second, but then he’s being guided through the house, past the living room until they’re in the kitchen, shiny and unsettlingly clean to belong to a single man. “You don’t mind if I eat, then, do you?” he asks, and Rhett realizes he’s already eating, a bowl of cereal sitting on the counter next to his phone and a stack of pictures.

“Nah, go ahead,” Rhett says, and turns his attention to the top photograph, shiny and fresh off a printer. “Floor plans?”

Link tosses them his way with a nod, spooning a mouthful of cereal and dribbling milk down his chin. “Third floor is where we’re headed,” he says. “I’ll be giving you a gun.”

Rhett cringes. He knows how to shoot, and is usually unfazed by the idea of needing to defend himself, but the reality of what Link does stops him just shy of any amount of comfort he may usually have. Instead of saying so, he just nods his head.

“I feel like we need to clear the tension a little bit, man,” Link says, picking the bowl of cereal up to drink some of the milk. Smacking his lips, he continues, “I’ve killed 32 people. The first person I killed was when I was nineteen. His name was Phillip, and my boss at the time didn’t like him, so that was enough of a reason for me to put a bullet in his head. I shot him with a .22 caliber rifle, standing on flight of stairs, as he was coming inside his home from seeing an opera with his wife. His death earned me two million dollars.”

Rhett doesn’t make eye contact. He listens, leg bouncing nervously while Link continues talking.

“I can go through all of them if you’d like, because I remember all of the details of every single one. But I’d rather not,” he says, shrugs his shoulders. “Eventually, you’ll see me kill someone, so you gotta get over that barrier if this is gonna work.”

Rhett nods his head, says, “I know.”

“I don’t think you do, though, Rhett,” Link counters, wiping his mouth with his fingers. “Want to know what the worst one was?”

No. He doesn’t. But then Link says, “If I make you see the very worst of me, of what I’ve done, then everything else I do will seem small in comparison. Because I promise you it won’t get this bad again.”

He still doesn’t want to know, but the logic is sound. This faux therapy session isn’t helping him at all, but he understands why Link is telling him this stuff. So he nods his head, bites his bottom lip, and forces himself to make eye contact with Link as he talks.

“His name was Will,” he starts, pulling his phone out of his back pocket. Rhett watches him type something in, scroll a few times, before there’s a picture of a young man, barely out of his teens, smiling up at him. A shiver wracks through him, and he pushes the phone back towards Link. “He was the ninth. At the end of it, I had him in a box, wrapped up, and shipped to his boss’s front door. He was eighteen years old. My boss had me go to his funeral, for some sick reason, and I lied to his family to convince them he and I were friends. Before I left, his mom hugged me, fucking _thanked_ me for showing up.”

There’s a pregnant pause, and Rhett half expects more, a better picture painted, but Link shakes his head and tells him, “I won’t get into details. I won’t show you pictures, and I won’t tell you about anyone else if you don’t want me to. But this is my job, and I’ve done some things somebody like you wouldn’t even dream of doing.”

“Do you always use a gun?” is what Rhett asks. He doesn’t know why it matters to him, really. Perhaps it has something to do with his own fate dangling on the end of a cord in front of him, the motivation for him to keep on running. He supposes he’s checking to see how personal Link would get with him. If he’d prefer to feel the life under Rhett’s veins, his muscle and bones, or if he’d rather it be quick and painless.

Link shakes his head, a little smirk forming on his face. “Nah. Sometimes I like to use my hands.” The spark of humanity Rhett felt for him is gone, just like that, and the cold shock of fear washes over him like an ice bath.

He has more questions, but he isn’t sure exactly how far he can push things, how Link is going to react. There’s still residual discontent coursing through him, and he doesn’t really know if it’ll ever go away. No matter how much of himself Link bares to Rhett, he’s not sure if it’ll erase that shaky, anxious feeling in his gut whenever he’s around him. There’s a spark of realization that a power dynamic where Link is holding the reigns is exactly what Link wants.

They fall silent, and Link finishes his cereal while he scrolls through his phone again. Rhett watches the expression on his face, his brows furrowing in concentration. He isn’t wearing his glasses, and he looks a little older like this, just as tired as Rhett is. It helps him seem less intimidating, just by a little bit.

“Alright,” Link says after a moment. “Any questions before I let you know what we’re in for tonight? Full disclosure, baby.”

It’s the second time he’s been told that today, and it makes his stomach twist, makes him breathe out a sharp laugh at the realization. He’s living two separate lives, and it isn’t often that they intersect so directly.

He says, “You planning on killing anybody tonight?”

Link looks up at him carefully, eyebrows raised in mild amusement. He grabs his empty bowl off the counter, turns to rinse it out. “Not tonight, no,” he says. “We’ll just be sitting in a bar tonight. Do you own a suit?”

Rhett laughs. “What color? I’ve got a closet full.”

“Navy,” Link says. “I’ll be wearing red, so get a tie that matches.”

“Matching, huh? Who’re we trying to impress?” Rhett asks, mostly joking, but Link gets a serious look in his eye, laughs smoothly.

He tells Rhett, “Everyone.”

And then he’s motioning towards the pictures again, so Rhett puts his attention back on them, leafs through the first few before he gets to a picture of a man. Something about him looks familiar, his round, happy face and receding hair line matching up in Rhett’s mind. It’s common, in this business, to see faces over and over again. He isn’t unsettled, just confused, and pulls it out of the stack.

“Who’s this? He looks familiar.” He holds the picture up for Link to look at.

Link shrugs his shoulders. “He just goes by ‘The Boss’ as far as I know. I’ve dealt with him once before, briefly. His wife is sweet, very willing to talk after a couple glasses of wine. Her name is Sheila, and she’s who we’ll be visiting tonight, at the club.”

Rhett frowns. He stares a little harder at the picture, clean and glossy, and rubs his thumb over the scar under the guy’s left eye. There’s a faint bell ringing in his mind, but he just can’t place it. He knows this man. “What’s he got that you want?”

Link smiles, bright and happy. “I’m glad you asked. It should be a few more pages in.”

Rhett flips through the pages some more, careful not to smudge anything too badly. When he gets to it, he recognizes it, and smirks up at Link. “This isn’t real.”

It’s a painting, wildly recognizable, one that most people believe burned in the fire set to the museum it was housed in. Rhett shakes his head with a laugh. He says, “You’re chasing something that doesn’t exist.”

“It exists,” Link promises. “His wife says he inherited it. Something about his grandfather and the war and how he saved this one painting— _The Painter on the Road to Tarascon_ —because it was a Vincent van Gogh piece and he knew it’d be worth a fortune. His grandpa died not long after he sealed it off in a safe in Germany along with some other things I’m hoping to get my hands on one of these days.”

“This seems like a big risk to me.” He wouldn’t take this job, normally. This sort of stuff, things with rumors and legends, he avoids. Other guys go for it, and that’s how they end up dead.

Link cocks his head to the side and smiles. “Risk keeps you young, remember?”

“I don’t know, man,” Rhett hedges, wiping a hand over his face. “How do we know this is real?”

Link shrugs his shoulders, and it makes something in Rhett uneasy. “That’s why I want it. I’ve got some friends, a guy I trust, that’s going to take a look at it for me and authenticate it. If it’s real, can you imagine the amount of money it’s going to be worth? Fame and fortune, my friend—the two things that make this life worth living.”

“And if it’s not real?”

“Then we’ve got firewood,” Link says. “We can roast some marshmallows and have ourselves a sleepover.”

 Rhett isn’t entitled to an argument on the point. His job now is to nod his head and play his part. So that’s what he does. And he watches Link stack the photographs back up neatly, watches his mouth turn up into that wicked smile. When he says, “This is gonna be fun,” Rhett feels himself start to sweat.

Link sends him home to get his suit, tells him to get dressed and be back for seven. It gives Rhett too much free time, too much of an opportunity to think about things.

He spends extra time in the shower, leaning against the back wall and just letting the too-hot water wash over him. Watching the water spiral down the drain, he lets himself cry because he can convince himself it’s not really happening if it just mixes with the water dripping from his hair. This is all so damn frustrating. He’s only giving himself this moment to cry, to react this way, because this is just a job.

This is just a job.

Link isn’t going to hurt him as long as they’re doing a job; he’s too valuable of an asset for that to happen. He’s not afraid anymore, he doesn’t think. That’s not really—no, that isn’t the word he’d use for it. More or less, he just realizes that he’s lost a game he’s been playing for ten years. He isn’t used to losing, and not only has he lost, but Link’s got his arm twisted behind his back. For the first time in a long time, someone’s got their hold on him. The ball isn’t in his court any longer, and as long as he keeps breathing through it, he knows he’ll be able to pull his head above water long enough to do the job.

So the fear is gone, replacing itself with the concrete block of being unsure, of not knowing how to dig himself out of this. He’s stuck, instead, with not having a choice any longer. It’s been maybe a week, and he’s only seen Link twice, and already his whole life feels like it’s different. The seams of his clothes aren’t aligned correctly anymore, the wrinkles on his face don’t map out the same past they used to, and the tips of his fingers don’t have much feeling left in them. Link is a sour taste on the back of his tongue, and Rhett can’t help but wonder if there’s anyone out there who doesn’t feel the same way he does.

Is there somebody that Link’s got in the same way Rhett has Stevie? Or has this life taken that away from him? He said his killed his first person when he was nineteen. Rhett wasn’t much older than that when he started, but even then, he’s had friends. He’s had people in his life that aren’t strictly business.

Everybody needs somebody.

By the time he’s stepping out of his shower, his skin is bright red and his fingers are pruned. He spends too long ironing his suit, burns his index finger and sucks it into his mouth to lathe his tongue over the hurt. By the time he’s buttoning his jacket, adjusting his cuffs and coiffing his hair just so, it’s after six.

With traffic, he knows he’ll be a couple minutes late. He isn’t concerned, but out of courtesy, he sends Link a text to let him know he’s on his way.

It strikes him, suddenly, the trust Link has put in him. For all he knows, Rhett could run. Rhett could leave. All that’s really hanging over his head is money, and he’s got plenty of that in a bank account overseas. Stevie would know where to find him. He could change his number, move back home. College is still an option. He could finally be that paleontologist.

He drives to Link’s house with the radio louder than he usually likes it.

 The gate is open already, and Link is waiting outside, looking sharp in a deep red suit. His hair is styled, neat and clean. He’s got on a different pair of glasses, and his smile is honest, sincere, widening when Rhett steps out of his car.

He’s greeted with a low wolf-whistle from Link that makes him grin shyly and shake his head. “Lookin’ good, man!”

“You, too,” Rhett tells him, eyes him up and down before shaking himself out of it. The taste of whiskey fills his senses, a memory on the tip of his tongue from the other night, when he’d first spotted Link. Then, all he’d been able to think was how genuinely good-looking Link is; and now, it’s tainted, it’s laced with fear pheromones. Still, he leans in when Link presses up on his tip-toes, lets him kiss his cheek with a soft chuckle.

“Oh, you smell nice, too,” Link comments, and Rhett catches him licking his lips. He nods his head in thanks, clearing his throat against a sudden tightness there.

Rhett never wears cologne to jobs. It’s a pretty basic rule, really, one that most people will follow. It’s easier to trigger a memory with smell than anything else, and it’s easier to be noticed that way. He prefers to shower, show up clean and relaxed, put on some scentless deodorant. He’s glad to know it works for him.

Link pats him on the chest, pulls open the passenger side door, and gestures for Rhett to get in. The seat is pushed back all the way, obviously a kindness extended his way, and Link closes the door behind him with a wink.

“So here’s something you should know,” Link says as he’s opening his door. “We’re a couple, tonight.”

“Okay,” Rhett says with a nod. It’s not the first time he’s been someone’s boyfriend for a job. But then Link passes him a plain gold band, and he understands. While he’s slipping it on, he says, “Mr. McLaughlin-Neal?”

Link grins at him, “Whatever you want, baby. We’re newlyweds, just getting home from our honeymoon. Sheila invited us out for drinks so she could meet you. Forewarning that she’s touchy, in case that makes you uncomfortable.”

“How touchy?” Because it does make him uncomfortable, if he’s honest. It always has, for as long as he can remember. But he refuses to give Link the added advantage of knowing that, chooses his next words carefully. “Just so I know what to expect.”

“She likes to try to sneak her hand up my inner thigh if I’m not careful. Just sit with your legs crossed and your hands to yourself, and you should be alright,” Link says. And then, as if he’s proving a point, one of his hands lands on Rhett’s leg, his thin fingers dancing up, up, until they get a little too close. Rhett coughs, squirms in his seat, and puts his hand on top of Link’s.

Link’s a terrible driver. It takes approximately three miles for Rhett to realize that, for him to be gripping the seat and staring, wide-eyed, at the road. He tries his best not to say anything, not to scream and jump at every little thing Link does, but then he’s almost running into a pedestrian, and Rhett finally snaps, shouts, “Link! You’re gonna fucking kill someone!”

The irony isn’t lost to him, but it really shouldn’t have warranted the laughter that bubbles out of Link, who looks admittedly a little shaken up at the occurrence. “I’ll let you drive next time, jeez,” he says with a chuckle. “I guess I should have warned you.”

All Rhett asks is, “How much longer ‘til we’re there?” He smoothes out the front of his jacket and looks over at Link.

“Not too much longer.”

“Man, how have you managed to be any amount of successful at your job like this?” he asks, feeling his nerves soothe just a little bit, feeling himself start to relax.

Link shrugs, humor twinkling in his eyes. He barks out a laugh, and says, “Guns are easy. _People_ are easy. Cars? Awful. Too many distractions, too many things to do at once. With a gun, you aim and you shoot.”

That seems too simple, Rhett thinks, but he accepts it as an answer for now. “You said sometimes you like to use your hands.”

“I do,” Link tells him. “Depends on the situation. I’m very good with my hands, after all.”

It’s lewd, and the hand still on Rhett’s thigh, even after all of this, squeezes just so. It’s a threat and a promise all wrapped up into five seconds of conversation, and Rhett can’t help the way he shivers against it.

He keeps his hand there, squeezing just a little too tight, for the rest of the ride.

The club isn’t discreet, and Rhett recognizes the name as soon as they pull up. “You really rub elbows with some interesting people, man,” he says with a shake of his head as he unbuckles his seatbelt.

Link is handing over the keys and a weighted tip to valet, coming around the car to link arms with Rhett, before he’s saying, “Oh, you’ve got no idea, baby.”

The club is notoriously mafia owned, and Rhett’s never stepped foot in the place. He doesn’t fuck with the mafia, stays as far away from it as he can, and even Link’s shoulders seem a little tense as they walk through the doors. Link guides him through the building, passing out smiles as they go.

“You don’t know who owns this place. You have no idea about me or my job or anything, got it?” Link murmurs, low and sickly-sweet and right in Rhett’s ear. “Get all of the information you may have about this club—or me, for that matter—out of your head, otherwise you’re risking both of our lives tonight.”

Rhett nods, plasters on a smile, and leans down to kiss Link on the mouth, playing into their characters. When they pull apart, Link is beaming, and he tells Rhett, “Good boy. You’re better at this than I thought you’d be.”

“Yeah, well,” Rhett chuckles, “I convince people to trust me for a living. Just because I let you get under my skin doesn’t mean I always do.”

Link laughs coolly, pats Rhett on the back as he leads him through another set of doors, into a much louder, more crowded area. Inside, everyone is dressed smartly, bleeding into a cliché, a scene plucked and hand-picked directly from a movie. People with too much money and too much power smiling at each other simply out of courtesy while they all do a few equations in their heads, try and figure out the easiest way to steal whatever they can from the others. Rhett feels comfortable, back in his element when an older lady comes up to the two of them, kisses Link on the cheek with a hum of adoration, and he’s got enough time to slip a hand into her purse, tug out her wallet and slide it smoothly into his pocket under the disguise of adjusting his jacket when she turns her attention on him.

Link caught him, and he sees the sparkle of humor dance in his eyes as she’s walking away. He grins, and pats Rhett’s back pocket with a wink.

“Oh, Mr. McLaughlin, I’ve never been more attracted to you than right now,” Link tells him, eyes dark and predatory. He looks like he’s contemplating something, like the cogs in his brain are working too fast for him to keep up. But as he’s opening his mouth to say something else, a loud, high-pitched voice rings out, saying his name; and he rolls his eyes before turning around, fake smile sliding easily into place.

“Link Neal, as handsome as I remember you from last time.”

“Sheila! How are you tonight, sweetheart?” Link says, and Rhett watches carefully, takes in the interaction so he knows his place.

“Wonderful,” Sheila says, and brings up a glass of red wine to her lips, taking a sip before her eyes finally land on Rhett. “Oh! Is this—“ she trails off, her free hand waving in the direction of Rhett. Obviously, they hadn’t spoken about him in much detail.

Link hums, turns to him with a smile, eyes meeting Rhett’s with a harsh, cold sincerity that translates how important this game is to him. “This is Rhett, Sheila. Rhett, this is Mrs. Sheila.”

“A pleasure, ma’am,” Rhett says politely, extending his hand out to take hers. When she grabs his in a dainty, unsure handshake, he bends down to press a soft kiss to the top, grinning when she coos happily.

She smacks Link none too lightly on the chest with a gasp, says, “You didn’t tell me he was a proper gentleman, Link.”

“I got myself a real southern boy, Sheila,” Link tells her, eyes never leaving Rhett.

He only holds eye-contact for so long with Link before he’s turning his attention back to Sheila, watching her grab at Link’s hand and drag him through throngs of people, chattering away about something that Rhett’s too far away to hear. Instead, he focuses his attention on the room around them, the faces blurring past baring their teeth. There’s a man by the doors they came in, keeping his head low, and he makes eye-contact with Rhett.

Something is wrong. He knows that face, can’t place a name to it, but he _knows_ that face, has seen it sitting across tables from him, never really changing from the staunch, haunting look it’s got on it now. When he flashes Rhett a hint of teeth, unkind and threatening, Rhett turns his head forward, putting a gentle hand on Sheila’s shoulder to lean over her with an apology and tap Link.

Link, with a kind, patient smile that he’s obviously practiced often, maneuvers the woman in-between them until she’s walking ahead, uncaring and jovially leading them to another part of the club. Once he’s sidled up next to Rhett, Link raises his eyebrows in question.

Rhett keeps the uneasiness out of his voice when he leans down and says, “Big guy by the door?”

“You’re bigger,” Link says with a smile and a playful elbow to Rhett’s side. “What about him?”

“One of Frank’s.”

“Well, I’ll be damned! Look at old Frank growing a set after all,” is what Link says, breathy laughter falling out of him. It’s genuine laughter, loud and vivacious, bouncing off of the walls around them. Their host, drunk enough not to care or not to have heard the conversation beforehand, turns around with a smile and shimmies over to the two of them. “Sheila, honey, who do we have on watch tonight?” Link spins her when she gets close, dips her in time to the music.

She laughs, too sugary sweet, slurring a little when she says, “It’s Greg, darling. It’s always Greg on the weekends.”

“Mm, would you mind calling him and letting him know we’ve got an unsavory face wandering around the building? He’s making Rhett a little nervous,” Link says, voice going low, getting to that pitch it was at when he invited Rhett back home with him that night. Sheila steps too close, and Link winds his arms around her middle, keeping his head tilted up so she can’t get to his mouth. Instead, she presses her lips to his chin, sloppy and embarrassing, and Rhett watches Link’s mouth quirk up into a mean grin.

Her eyes close, and she leans into Link in a hug that he allows her to steal, and she says, “Anything for you, dear.”

“You’re too good to me,” Link murmurs before pulling apart from her and stepping a bit closer to Rhett. “Problem solved,” he says lowly, just enough got Rhett to hear him. “He’ll be dead before we leave if Greg finds anything on him.”

They’re standing close, and Link is fiddling with the ring on his finger, one that matches the one on Rhett’s. Their heads are down and they’re talking lowly, having a private moment so as not to be overheard. Sheila catches them like this and makes a sound that draws both of their attention back to her. And puts her hand on her chest, eyes a little bit wet. “It’s so nice to see two young men so in love,” she says. “Come now, you two. I’ve got a nice bottle of chardonnay being opened for us in my booth.”

The wine is nice, and Rhett really isn’t afraid of Frank or any of his guys, so he’s able to sink into a plush, velvet couch, Link a little too close at his side. Sheila is good at making conversation. Rhett wonders, briefly, exactly how much of her husband’s life she takes part in.

Link tells her, “Your husband—his name slips my mind—“ while he’s fiddling with a loose curl hanging down the side of her arm.

Leaning in a little too close, obviously adoring the attention, she slurs, “George, darling. His name is George. Oh, you remember him, I know you do.”

“George, that’s right, that’s right.” Link smiles victoriously, those sharp teeth coming out to play again. “George and I have done some business in the past. We know a lot of the same people.”

“He knows everybody,” she sighs. Rhett watches the way she tilts her head just so, how her eyes go soft. He takes in her body language, how she’s turned towards Link, comfortable and honest. It means she’s telling the truth, and as long as he knows that much, he can gauge the situation.

They’re here to gain information, to pry her mouth open and get her to sing. This is more Link’s game than his own, really. Rhett gets his information by being sweet, cunning, one step ahead of everyone. There’s menace laced in every single one of Link’s moves. The finger twirling Sheila’s hair is posed to pull at any moment. His head, so close to hers, is ready to break her nose at the slightest hint of a threat. He’s always poised, always on the guard. Rhett doesn’t work like that.

He admires the way Link adopts a character so well, how he sinks himself into it, wears it like a new skin.

Then again, he supposes, Link’s had to learn to play dirty. Rhett’s got the advantage of always being the smartest person in the room. Link has to rely more on holding knives at someone’s Achilles tendon, hiding under the table to strike when they least expect it. It’s a strange dynamic, a weird game of tennis where neither one of them will ever know where the ball is going to land. As long as they keep passing it back and forth, they’ll be able to keep the game going. But if one of them drops it, loses sight of where it’s going, that’s when it’ll be over.

Rhett’s not ready to have blood on his hands.

So when Link asks Sheila, “What is George up to these days? Any plans to soak up the beautiful weather we’ve got coming up?” Rhett gets ready to play. He picks up the bait, and she so obviously doesn’t. Link’s smirk grows, the finger still twirling that piece of hair around moves to run gently down her arm instead.

She says, leaning in even closer, giggling under her breath, “He’ll be out on that silly boat all week. I’ll be home alone.”

Link’s smile widens as he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, and Rhett clears his throat, startling Sheila out of her drunken advances on Link. “You’re both welcome to come over, if you’d like to,” she says, cutting Rhett a pair of eyes, too. One of her hands reaches across Link, resting on Rhett’s thigh.

He almost laughs, because Link called it. Instead, he leans down low, his mouth almost touching hers, and he murmurs, “We’d love to.”


	3. Flesh and Blood

Time is fickle. Time, really, doesn’t even actually exist, when it comes down to the basic principles of things. In the scheme of life, time is just a set of guidelines furnished to make things seem a little more organized. It’s manmade, and Rhett doesn’t usually pay much attention to it unless he really, really has to.

He’s learned to manipulate it, to mold it to fit himself as opposed to letting it run his life. Over the years, he’s adapted to living in such a way that allows him to talk until he’s got more of it. Because, and this is true about most things, manmade things can always be destroyed.

Always.

Without a doubt. And manmade things can always be manipulated. Rhett learned this early on.

Man is manmade, and it’s the best example of this rule, all soft tissue and sinew and bone, meaty chunks that can very easily become bite-sized. Time is the same way. It’s malleable, if you know how to handle it properly.

He does.

Or, he thought he did. Right now, he’s having trouble believing that as he watches the clock tick by, drinking a cup of coffee and eating his fifth donut. The waitress keeps coming over to try and make small talk, but she doesn’t have anything worth his time to offer. Her watch she bought from Target gives that much away. And he’s not in the right state of mind to make friends right now.

Link had managed to finagle a date out of Sheila the other night, schedule a time that they could come over. Strictly for more drinks in a quiet place where they could talk, she’d said with a wink that night. It’s along the beach, so no need to bother with suits or other fancy things. She’d told them to come in something comfortable.

His skin crawls, just a little bit, at the implications dripping from her every word. He really hopes they don’t have to fuck her for this to be able to work.

It’s not that she’s unattractive, not even that he would mind fucking her under different circumstances, truly. It’s that Rhett doesn’t shit where he eats. He’s not cheap enough to sleep with someone and then rob them blind. Will he tease them a little bit, get their blood going so they aren’t thinking straight? Absolutely. That’s a strategy, and one that’s pretty much foolproof.

But he won’t actually fuck them. Because, see, that’s inviting the opportunity for emotions into this game. When emotions are added to things, that’s when people start shooting at you.

There are two quick ways to die in this job: getting caught and getting someone emotional.

He avoids both of those things. So far, until recently, it’s worked for him. Link’s a special situation, and he’s got a feeling he’s not the first person to think that about him.

They’re supposed to be going to Sheila’s tonight, in about four hours, and he’s supposed to be at Link’s house in two for them to work over a few more things, get a game plan going. Link’s supposed to get him familiar with a gun he’s got.

It’s small, he’d said, and quiet. Not too much of a kickback, but powerful enough to have someone down in one hit.

Rhett’s not really good with that sort of thing. Situations get heated, and Rhett’s hands get shaky and he loses the portion of his brain that deals with critical thinking. In fact, thinking just shuts down entirely almost. That overwhelming panic sets it, and he just shuts the fuck down.

He’d said as much to Link when he’d brought it up again, when they were leaving the club that night. Link hadn’t listened, hadn’t even said anything to him, just derailed the conversation into something else, something insignificant that Rhett didn’t listen to. And then he’d gotten serious, said, “If you really think you’re better off without a gun in these sorts of situations, I don’t think you really know what we’re getting into.”

At the time, Rhett had laughed at him, just at the sheer reality that _Link_ was the whole reason he was getting into anything at all. This is Link’s fault, anything that happens tonight. Realizing that doesn’t help, really. It makes things worse somehow.  

Still, he gets up from the table, puts a hundred dollar bill down before he goes because the waitress certainly tried her best, and he leaves. In his car, he tries to convince himself to go to Link’s. He winds up not going anywhere for a while, just sits in his car with this head leaned back, eyes closed while he takes a few steadying breaths.

“It’s just a job,” he says to himself. “And Link is going to be there if anything goes wrong.”

The words make his stomach drop. Eating so much sugar was a bad idea.

Even so, he manages to put the car in drive with his hands shaking like they are.

By the time he’s pulling up to Link’s gate, carefully typing in the code Link had given him last time he came over, the butterflies in his stomach have turned to cement. He’s no longer nauseous, the feeling replaced with anxiety, a pressure on his chest making it hard to breathe.

Rhett doesn’t bother knocking, the front door unlocked dumbly. When he finds Link in the living room, feet up on the coffee table, flipping through the channels on the TV, Link raises his eyebrows in amusement. He plops down next to him on the couch, chances a look over at him and asks, “How’s it going?”

“Would you have broken in if I’d have locked the door?” The question in sincere even though Link’s obviously humored by the whole thing. This is all a game to him, anyway. If Rhett had broken in, Link probably would have laughed himself to tears, not phased in the slightest.

He thinks about his answer. “It would have taken me too long, so no.”

“How fast can you usually pick locks?”

If this is a test, it’s smart, he supposes, for Link to ask these questions before they get themselves into a situation neither one really knows how the other will react to. Still, Rhett feels like he’s under a microscope, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Depends on the lock. One like yours, three minutes, tops. Most of the time they only take me about a minute,” Rhett tells him. “On one memorable occasion, it took me less than thirty seconds.”

Link grins at him. “Oh, you’re _that_ good at your job, are you?”

Rhett laughs, just a little bit, and shrugs. “I mean, you asked, man. It’s not like I’m trying to make it a competition.”

“Go ahead, Rhett. Ask me how long it takes me to pick a lock.” The question hadn’t even crossed his mind, honest.

But, since Link asked, “Hey, Link, how long does it take you to pick a lock, man?” he indulges.

Link swings his hand, smacks Rhett on the chest hard, and snaps his fingers. With a smile, he says, “I’ve never done it before, so I don’t know.”

“What?” Rhett laughs. “You— Let me get this straight. Mr. Assassin has never had to break into someone’s house before?”

“Oh, sure I have,” Link says with a shrug. “Except, usually I break a window or I’m invited inside. Or whoever I’m with can do it in less than a minute and there’s no need for me to try.”

“This is ridiculous,” Rhett says, shaking his head. He rubs a hand over his face. Picking a lock is basic, it’s pretty much the first thing Rhett was taught. He can pick just about any lock thrown his way. In all of his years of doing this, he’s never come across someone who hasn’t been able to pick a lock, who hasn’t _had_ to pick a lock.

Link’s situation, his power-trip, is all starting to make sense, when Rhett really thinks about it. Someone like Link, who has either always had help, or who’s only ever had to smooth-talk his way far enough to get a gun at someone’s temple—they don’t learn basic things. They don’t learn critical thinking or fear or how to lose. And they’re always one step ahead, really. It’s hard to be worried when you’ve brought a gun to a knife fight and nobody knows it. The morality conversation they had was just a teaser into Link’s psyche, but it’s the glue helping him piece all of this together. Take morals out of the equation, and all a person has left is natural instinct. All he’s got left are gnashing teeth and survival leading the way.

And he’s spoiled, Rhett decides. He’s never had to really get his hands dirty. At least, not in a very long time, if he understands correctly. Rhett doesn’t know how long he’d been working for the boss that got him into this before he was handed a gun and told to start shooting, but it can’t have been very long if he was nineteen when he’d first killed.

It’s a little bit nonsensical. Now that his brain has made these connections, when he looks over at Link and takes him in, he can bite down the initial fear. He can see past the blood, the crime scene photos he’d been shown at the very beginning. He can look through the cockiness, the overwhelmingly dominant personality. He can see the boy beneath the reputation.

But then Link bares his teeth a little bit and says, “So, you recognize this face at all?” and shows Rhett a picture of a body.

It’s mostly bruises, bloody and gross, and Rhett swallows thickly. He recognizes the tile below the guys head as Link’s kitchen floors. He can make out a familiar face, just barely, beneath the swelling and the mangled mess he’s been turned into. Link had used his hands, this time.

“Uh—“ he turns his head the other way. “Yeah, uh. Frank. He worked for Frank.”

“Figured,” Link sighs, pulling the phone back away from Rhett.

Just like that, Rhett is reminded. Just like that, everything slots back into the natural order of this relationship. He catches Link’s smile, and it sends a shiver wracking through him. “Guess your number is up to thirty-three now?”

Link shakes his head, not looking away from the TV, still just flipping through the channels methodically. He adjusts the pillow behind his back, the leather of the couch squeaking with his movement, and Rhett realizes the volume is muted, replaced with the hum of the house around them. Link lets it settle, gets himself comfortable again before he tells Rhett, “Nah, I don’t count the ones that are for self-defense.”

The words sort of ring in his head, the implication loud and violent despite the calm tone with which Link said the words.

He’s got about a dozen questions accosting his thought-process, but the most important one surfaces first: “When’d it happen?”

Because he has to know; he’s got to get a timeline, got to be on guard for things like this. And if he was sent here on the same night they went to the club, then it was an isolated incident. It was just Frank fucking with them, sending out a couple of boys as a warning shot. If it was a different night, then Rhett needs to start looking over his shoulder a little more often.

“Night before last. He’s being shipped to dear old Frank right now, though. I figured if he wasn’t his, then it would still be a good joke, yeah?” And he smacks Rhett again, laughing softly.

Rhett takes a deep breath. “You know what this means, right?”

“Could mean a lot of things,” Link says, shrugging his shoulders.

It couldn’t, not really. In Rhett’s world, it means one thing. So he says, “No. No, it couldn’t, man. It means that Frank is trailing us.”

“Thought you weren’t scared of Frank and his boys?” He’s smirking, dark and malicious and Rhett can almost taste how much Link is loving this. Briefly, he’s reminded of the first night Rhett was here, watching Link adjust his cock in his pants, watching the fucking joy etch itself across his face. He’s managed to forget that part of Link, that bone-chilling aspect that he likes watching people squirm.

Rhett says, “Fuck you, man. I’m scared now that you’ve pissed him off. Now that he’s got our scent. Come on, Link. You really think this isn’t something to be worried about?”

He feels Link’s hand on his thigh, and he almost jerks away, angry and upset, but he calms himself down. When Link pats him a couple of times, moves to stand up, Rhett squeezes his eyes shut. “Time to get ready, buddyroll,” Link says, and it’s left at that.

The agreement they’d come to was that Link was going to pick out the clothes for the night. Sheila was none too shy to give them a dress code, let them know how she expected them to dress, and Link had winked at Rhett in the car, said he’d known just the thing to get her going.

So when Link hands him a pair of light pink shorts, a dark blue button-up with the sleeves rolled up quarter length, and a pair of dark brown slip-on shoes, Rhett isn’t surprised at all. It’s not his usual style, but he gets why Link chose this, especially when he catches brand names on all of it. Rhett runs some numbers in his head, knows that Link spent somewhere around four hundred dollars on this outfit, and he shakes his head.

“She likes the lavish, Rhett. A couple of pretty boys like us all dressed up in expensive clothes? We’re in, son,” Link teases, pulling his shirt over his head.

Rhett tries hard not to stare. It works for a few seconds, but then Link is turning to tug off his jeans, and he catches a glimpse of a scar running down his side. It’s a couple of inches long and dark, and Rhett almost asks, but thinks better of it. His legs are long and muscular, showing years of activity, but there aren’t any visible scars there.

He catches himself staring a little harder at Link’s back, watching the muscles move as he tugs on his shirt. Despite his size, being small and lithe, he’s got more muscle definition that Rhett does. His shoulders are broad, and the realization makes Rhett’s mouth go a little dry. Link is a good-looking guy.

He’s crazy and terrifying and cunning and powerful, and Rhett still has tendrils of fear that work through him when he thinks about that profile, those personality traits that follow Link every step of the way—but he’s damn good-looking.

Wrapped up in watching Link get dressed, he jumps just a little when he hears Link clear his throat. When he meets Link’s eyes bashfully, he gets a bright smile in return, and he tells Rhett, “Don’t lose focus, big guy. I’ll let you look all you want later tonight; how’s that sound?”

“Sure,” Rhett mumbles, face hot and red with embarrassment.

Link’s outfit is similar to his own: red shorts, white button-up shirt, light brown slip-on shoes.

But then he’s opening his closet, digging for a few moments before turning and handing Rhett a holster. It’s sleek and black, easily hidden, wrapping around his whole torso before nestling comfortably under his armpit. Link helps him put it, lets his hand linger just a little bit on Rhett’s ribs while he asks if it feels okay. “This is an important part, Rhett. If you look the slightest bit uncomfortable in this, it’ll cause suspicion,” he says.

They adjust it a bit, and Rhett sits down on the edge of the bed, bends over, twists and turns until he’s used to the extra pressure, the feeling of it. And then Link’s sliding a sleek, black handgun into the holster itself. Rhett very pointedly doesn’t think about it being there. He focuses instead on watching Link slip on a similar looking device. He looks much more at home in it, tugging a shirt on over it with a smirk, fingers slipping on the buttons.

While Rhett is getting dressed, Link tugs on a watch, tosses one Rhett’s way along with the wedding ring from the other night.

By the time they’re walking out the door, they look like a couple of rich kids. It’s pompous, and Rhett sort of hates himself for it, but he knows the effect it’s got. Having gotten to know Sheila and the type of woman she is, he knows it’s going to work.

The drive to her house is lengthy, and Link lets him do the driving this time, handing him the keys and plugging in the address into his GPS with a grin. Rhett is thankful—beyond thankful, really—for the bypassing of that particular bout of anxiety tonight, and takes the keys with a ‘ _thanks’_ and a nod.

It’s not until Link is putting on Lionel Richie that Rhett allows himself to relax and enjoy the ride. Link is a quiet passenger, singing along to the music softly, nodding his head and tapping his fingers on the car door. He’s fidgety, and Rhett watches him carefully out of the corner of his eye, takes in his body language to gauge whether it’s nerves or just kinetic energy.

It isn’t nerves. Not in the slightest, he learns. And, really, he should have known. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Link is almost giddy, excitement pouring out of him in waves as they drive further and further away from comfort, from quiet and calm.

Sheila and George’s house is huge, easily twice as big as Link’s, with a couple acres of front yard. Rhett’s stomach drops when he takes note of three other vehicles in the driveway, all parked neatly and as close to the front door as possible. He takes a few deep breaths, nods when Link asks him if he’s okay, and puts on his best face for this.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” he says, sending a practice smile Link’s way.

As they’re getting out of the car, Link tells him, sounding impressed, “You’re damn good at that, Rhett.”

He takes the compliment, doesn’t analyze it much. The other cars worry him. They send a red flag that this is going to be harder than they anticipated. This is going to require them being separated. One of them will need to be downstairs, keeping an eye on the situation, entertaining everyone and keeping tabs while the other is upstairs, getting the painting out of the frame.

They’ll have to get back to the car first, grab the black cloth they’d brought along so as to cover the whole frame to make hiding it a little easier, and get it inside without anyone noticing them slipping away. Other people being here makes this harder.

Link’s plan was originally to drug Sheila, get her drunk enough that she’d fall asleep, get her _tucked into bed_ _all nicely_ , as he’d put it. It’s out of the question now, and when Link slides his hand into Rhett’s, laces their fingers together as they walk up the steps leading to the front door, he says, “Time to see what you can do under pressure, baby. You ready?”

He doesn’t answer, choosing instead to grab Link’s hand, authenticate their characters again, and fall in stride with him as they walk up the steps to the lavish, windowed front door. There’s a chandelier right inside, a huge, open foyer visible through the door, elaborate and decorative, swaying just slightly as the air conditioner blows directly on the jewels littering it excessively. When Link rings the doorbell, it sounds through the house, loud and echoing, and Rhett knows how this house is going to feel when he steps inside.

There are three types of houses, Rhett has discovered.

The first type is his favorite type, and it’s the hardest to rob. It’s a house that feels lived in. It’s well-worn, like a favorite shirt, fitting just so to the people who live in it, and just a little bit too warm for those who don’t. It’s cluttered to the professional eye, because everything is placed where it’s placed for convenience. There are indentions in the couches from bodies, dirt on your socks after walking around without shoes, and plastic plates to be eaten off of in the kitchen. It’s a house for families and friends, long nights and late mornings.

The second type is the easiest to rob, if he’s honest, because nobody is ever really there. It’s a shell of a house, just a roof over someone’s head, kept impossibly clean out of a compulsive need to be doing something. The bathroom is color-coded, the rug in the living room matches the curtains and the decorative pillows on the couch, and the spare room has a bed that’s always made. Eating isn’t allowed anywhere but the dining room, where there are bills stacked neatly on the edge of the table, and a purse spilling its contents onto a desk in the corner. It’s not a home, really. It’s a space for things, and it’s commercial, so the important stuff is all kept in the same place in every single one of them.

Sheila and George’s house is the third type. It’s the lavish type, too big for two people, sprawling selfishly across too much land. It tries to go for blasé, tries to cover itself in diamonds while pretending to be welcoming. Inside, there’s too much white furniture; and outside, the grass is too green to be real. There are stairs that are winding and huge and lead to rooms that have themes and schemes and are kept excessively neat. It holds secrets in its walls, muted and quiet. It’s a house to showcase power, authority. The paintings are real, but the people living inside aren’t—though, they’re both signed by their artists.

This type of house is always a challenge for people like Rhett. This is the type of house to have locks on things, codes for entry to pools and garages. It’s never hard to break the code, and people are inclined to use the same one for everything so it’s not forgotten. But deciphering codes and finding keys and picking locks is time consuming. Tonight, they don’t have a lot of time.

And it isn’t the night to try and manufacture any more then they’re being given.

Sheila is draped in silk when she answers the door. Her dress is airy and soft when she pulls them both into a drunken hug, and it tickles against Rhett’s legs when she leans too close, presses a lipstick-sticky kiss to his cheek. She tells them, “Come on in, boys! I hope you don’t mind—George invited some of his nephews over so they could use our library to have a bit of a family meeting. They won’t bother us any.”

It’s not good news, and Link shoots him a look. It’s not panic, but it’s almost there; it’s about as much of a panicked look as Link would ever allow himself to have.

She leads both of them through the living room, showing off a few things in a way she thinks is coy, her jewelry clanking sloppily against metal and clay, scraping along glass picture frames as she gives names to smiling faces Rhett couldn’t give less of a shit about. Eventually, they make it back outside, Link choosing to unlace their fingers and stuff his hands in his pockets. The beach isn’t very far, and Rhett can see waves dancing in the distance, can hear them cresting and licking at the shores. It isn’t where they’re going, being lead to a gazebo instead.

“Sit, sit. Would you boys like a drink? I’ll be your bartender tonight,” she says, shooting them a wink as she moves in a hurry behind a bar. Rhett can see that it’s stocked, glasses and liquors, a block of ice with a chisel sitting next to it adding to the façade.

He chuckles under his breath, hears Link let out a breathy laugh, too. “Scotch, if you have it. Straight,” he says.

She pulls out a bottle, smiling brightly. It isn’t high name stuff, something he’s got unopened on a shelf at his own house, but it’ll do for tonight.

While she’s pouring, Link says, “I’ll have a mimosa, I think.” And in return, he gets a wild fit of laughter from their host.

She’s got her own drink, from which she steals sips as she pours theirs. It’s red wine, dark and pulling her lipstick from her lips, reddening her cheeks. Rhett bets she’ll drink a couple more glasses, and they’ll be able to get the job done. Right now, it’s a waiting game.

They’re in arguably the most crucial point of the night. This is when they take it all in, when they work through the small details and mark the exits just in case. Sheila is easy to profile, thank goodness, but there are other bodies in the house, other hands and eyes to watch.

The problem is that Rhett doesn’t know where they are. He doesn’t know which shoulder to look behind, what types of footsteps to listen for. Sheila said they were in the library, and he mentally goes through the floor plans he’d studied like he was preparing for the SATs all over again. First floor is where it’s at, if he remembers correctly. That’s good, it’ll give him privacy later, ensure that he’s not poking around near the lion’s den.

“George built this home, you know,” Sheila says as she’s sitting down next to Link, on a chaise lounge much too ornate to be outside exposed to the sand and wind. Rhett catches Link’s movements at the very last second, quirks an eyebrow in humor when he spots it. There’s a tiny pill dissolving quickly in Sheila’s wine. Link saw his opportunity to play dirty after all, it appears.

“Did he? It’s absolutely beautiful, Sheila,” Link says, and Rhett nods his agreement from where he’s sitting across from them in a wicker chair.

She pats Link on the knee, takes another sip of her wine. Rhett’s  suddenly very interested in counting each one down, watching the rings in her glass like they’re sand grains in an hour glass. She tells them, “Designed it, got with an architect, and took part in the construction. Of course, that was thirty years ago and he could see his toes when he stood up then. Money makes you fat, boys. Don’t let it happen to you.” She takes another sip, eyes Rhett over the rim of her glass. “Stay young and pretty for me.”

“We’ll try our best, don’t you worry,” Rhett teases, winking at her.

Her first glass doesn’t take her long to finish. The bottle she pulls out from behind the bar is half-empty, but Rhett knows for a fact they don’t have to wait much longer. She sways in time to music that isn’t actually there, hums a tune Rhett can’t place.

“Rhett,” she calls, startling him out of his thoughts. “How’d you meet Link, anyhow?”

“A charity event,” he says, hoping the lie sticks.

She gasps sweetly, corks the wine bottle again. “Oh, how perfect. Tell me everything.”

Link is grinning at him, leaning with his elbows on his knees and his hands cradling his chin. Rhett wants to roll his eyes, but chooses to grin over at him instead. “He saw me. Found me talking to someone, and very rudely interrupted. Cost me a lot of money that night.” The truth dances around his explanation delicately, there to indulge Link.

“To be fair,” Link says, voice low and playful, “it was money he was gonna get at my expense.”

“Oh?” Sheila asks. “Are you two in the same business?” When she sits next to Link, her movements are sloppy, slow and drunk. She sits a little too hard, her eyelids growing heavier with every word. It won’t be long.

Link nods slowly, never breaking eye contact with Rhett. “Sort of. He knows some investors that I do and vice versa.”

Sheila hums under her breath, sits back on the chaise, and waves a hand. She tells them, “Go ahead, tell me the rest. I eat this stuff up.”

“I sunk my teeth right into him,” Link says, mimicking Sheila and sitting back as well. “And I’ve never let go since.”

“We were married pretty quickly after that night,” Rhett says. “Less than a year. But when you find that person you’re meant to be with, you just know right off the bat.”

They both watch her sink further into the couch, watch her eyes flutter closed softly as she murmurs something about George, something Rhett doesn’t catch fully in favor of taking the scene in, watching her body language carefully. His heart beats in his chest, adrenaline pumping violently through him. Apparently, he’s gauged exactly how drunk she is, the metaphorical clock ticking down too quickly, much quicker than he originally anticipated.

Link’s quirked eyebrow is all he needs to get to his feet, turning to place his untouched tumbler onto the bar before wiping his sweaty hands on his thighs. They make eye contact, and Link very carefully pulls out his phone from his pocket.

Rhett’s pocket vibrates after only a few seconds with a text of affirmation from Link.

This is happening. The timer has officially run out, all the sand in the hourglass settled neatly at the bottom. His hands start shaking, the gun that’s been nestled in its holster strapped to his chest becomes overwhelmingly noticeable again. He’d been able to let it slip his mind until now.

He starts making his way through the house again, walking as quietly as possible, treading softly but quickly until he’s staring at the car, going through the checklist in his brain. The cloth they’ve brought for inconspicuousness is in the back seat, and he grabs it quickly. He doesn’t have long to gather himself, but he steals a couple of seconds to breathe, center himself a little bit before diving headfirst into this situation that feels so incredibly _wrong_. Even after all of this, there’s a film on it leaving him feeling sticky.

After a quick glance at his phone again, a text from Link that says he’s managed to extract himself from the patio, has made it back into the house, Rhett sets himself into motion. He forces himself to ignore everything else, push down the anxiety, the emotional weights in his pockets. _One foot in front of the other_ , he reminds himself.

Link is indeed inside, leaning against the handrail of the stairs. His brow is furrowed and he purses his lips, nods his head when Rhett makes eye-contact. There are a lot of stairs, and he takes them two at a time, making it to the third floor in a few short moments. Everything is quiet. It’s still. There’s an unease greasing this entire evening, thick and heavy, and Rhett just can’t shake it.

The door he’s looking for is down an annexed hall, ducked off unless you’re really looking for it. It’ll be locked, but he’s got his pick in his wallet, and it won’t take him long to get inside. The trick will be getting all the way downstairs, back to the car unnoticed, all with the painting in his hands.  

If he’s honest, he hates when framed items are the job. He hates it. They’re big and bulky and hard to move quickly with. There’s glass and wood to worry about and he just keeps thinking about those other guys in the house that they haven’t seen. Do they know Rhett and Link are there? Are they listening in, hiding behind closed doors? How many skeletons does this house have in its closets?

He doesn’t think about it, sweats the fear out as he approaches the door, gets his pick in his fingers. The house breathes around him, and all he focuses on is getting this door unlocked. There’s a sound, not too loud, but loud enough that it echoes just a bit. He pays attention, fingers slipping once in his hesitation. It just sounds like a door being closed, so he presses on without pause.

The lock gives after just a couple of beats, he holds his breath, braces a hand on the frame to muffle the sound, and steps inside. The room is a treasure trove, organized enough that he spots what he’s here for immediately. His heart stops, he swears it does. Everything comes to a pinpoint, hazy and nauseating, and he swallows down around a lump of emotion. He knows better than to relax, knows that this is just step two. All he’s managed is to get himself to the point of the night designed to fail. He’s triggered the timer on the bomb deliberately, strategized a plan with Link with the sole purpose of cutting the wrong wires. Now he’s got to get out before it detonates.

He gets his hands on it without taking stock of what else is in the room, adrenaline pumping through him hard and fast enough that he doesn’t hear the commotion downstairs, doesn’t feel his phone vibrate desperately against his thigh, doesn’t register anything until there’s a shout, a piercing sound that he immediately recognizes as a gunshot ringing through the stark silence that permeated the house before.

“Shit!” he whispers, ice cold terror filling his veins.

He’s gotten this far. He’s got his fucking hands on what they came here for. So he’s not just going to walk away without it. It’s not worth his life— _Link_ isn’t worth his fucking life—but his pride? It’s gotten him into worse trouble.

There’s a plan, somewhere, unfurling itself in the depths of his mind, and if he just takes the first few terrifying steps, it’ll unravel entirely. He knows it, trusts his intuition enough to walk out of that door, leaving it wide open. The cloth slips in his hands, and he tosses it onto the ground, choosing instead to focus on having a good grip on the painting instead of concealing its identity. The stairs are harder to go down, and by the time he’s at the second floor, peaking around the corner to see if he can discover the source of the commotion, he’s at a crossroads.

As of right now, he has two choices, two ways he can let this play out. He can take his time, tiptoe down the stairs, pay attention to the little details so he doesn’t come across any surprises. He can be a step ahead of them all, not let the second or third gunshot he hears deter him at all. Things are getting louder, and he can try his best not to add to the noise.

Or he can run.

He’s got every intention to follow his first plan, the well-thought one. He wants to be smart about this, wants to have his ears perked up, taking in every move every single body in this house decides to make. He wants to get out of this alive.

But then a bullet grazes his knuckle and his legs are working faster than they’ve ever worked, lungs pumping angry and mean in his chest, blood rushing to his ears and ringing loudly. Everything happens around him while he runs. His senses all tunnel into fear, into flight, into getting him the fuck away from this entire thing. Behind him, he hears a cacophony of unintelligible shrieks, bullets _ping ping ping!-ing_ off of furniture and walls and smiling faces Rhett couldn’t give less of a shit about. All of George’s hard work, ridden with bullet holes, caught in the crossfire.

He makes it outside, out the front door, spots Link for a split second, sweaty and red, disheveled and holding his gun like a professional. It’s the first time Rhett’s seen him without that stupid grin on his face. The painting is still in Rhett’s hands, and he’s so close to making it back to the car that he can’t stop the loud, whooping laughter that tumbles out of it.

His legs keep working, and he makes it barely five steps away from the car before something ricochets through him, clothes-lining him to the ground. The painting lands on the grass next to him. For a second, he’s more concerned with making sure it’s okay, that it made it through this. As he’s reaching for it, though, his hand passes over his shoulder, hitting something warm and wet and sticky. He knows what it is almost immediately, but he still laughs, holds his hand out into the moonlight and is met with black dripping sickly down his fingers.

There isn’t much pain, just a bite that stops short, radiates through his arm and nowhere else. Until there’s another pinch drawing his attention, a little bit lower and—

And gosh. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, that hurts.”

“Come on,” he hears, a familiar voice in his head. “Come on. Can you get up? Can you—Rhett, can you walk?”

He’s up before there are any more questions, too fast too much, but Link’s hand is there to steady him. There’s noise, so much noise coming from inside, shouts and screams and gunfire that’s now got no objective. Their targets are outside, breathing in as much air as they can and scrambling to fumble the painting into the trunk of their car.

 Link says, low and fast, “Get in the fucking car.”

He manages to get the door open, gets a foot inside, and then there’s a whistling sound, the loudest crack Rhett’s ever heard in his life, and everything goes black.


	4. Triple Dog Dare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me over at [tumblr](http://cockymclaughlin.tumblr.com/) if that's something you're into.

When Rhett wakes up, he’s on a soft surface, in a pitch black room.

There’s the stagnant hum of an air conditioner in the distance, his own deep breaths, and the soft, almost inaudible sound of someone else snoring. He knows almost instantly he should be with Link, that as long as everything went okay, he should be in Link’s bed. He realizes then that he’s been stripped down to his underwear. It only embarrasses him a little bit, when he realizes how grateful he is that he’s alive to begin with.

The memories he’s got of the night—which are all of them, right up until getting hit in the head with _whatever_ that was—remind him that he’s hurt. Almost as if his body hadn’t caught up with his consciousness, things start hurting again. There’s the pinch in his shoulder again, in two places now that the adrenaline has died down. And then his head, on the right side, up by his eye socket. He’s curious, and just reaching up with the arm he can move answers his question.

He hisses, his fingers coming in contact with a bump, split and sore and still damp with blood. It’s right above his eyebrow, almost in his hairline, graciously far enough away from his temple, from his soft spots.

There’s the slick sound of fabric sliding together, and then he hears, “You awake?” from the corner of the room. It’s unmistakably Link, which means they made it, somehow.

He squints, grunts out an affirmation while he tries his best to sit up or _something_. His attempts don’t last, as his muscles ache and scream in protest. So instead, he plops back down onto the pile of pillows under his head. “Yeah,” he says finally. “What happened?”

Link sighs, and Rhett swears he can hear the hatred in his voice when he says, “Good ole George knew we were coming.”

“I gathered as much,” Rhett tells him. “How?”

“Frank.”

It’s almost enough to have him trying to sit up again, but the burn in his arm stops him short, reminds him it would be a bad idea. The bandage is sloppily done, but there nonetheless, and instead of asking what he really wants to ask, he says, “You did a shitty job of patching me up.”

“You’re a jerk,” Link says. “Anybody ever tell you that?”

Rhett laughs shortly. “Not since third grade, no.”

There’s a flurry of movement, and Link grumbles something under his breath. Rhett can trace a blurry flash of pigment in the air, a not-quite shadow as Link moves to the other side of the room. Lights come on, but they’re instantly dimmed, saving them both the headache.

Rhett gags when he gets a view of Link.

His shirt, previously stark white, is stained with thick patches of dark red, coagulated blood from who knows which person from the night. There’s some on his face, flecks of it on his glasses. Even his hair glistens in a way that makes Rhett’s stomach lurch.

The dark circles under Link’s eyes aren’t normal, violent and harsh when matched with his complexion gone pale like it has. He looks haggard, years and years older than he is, and Rhett almost, for just a split second, feels sorry for his role in it.

And then he remembers all of this was Link’s fault.

“You look like shit,” is what he decides to say. It comes out weaker than he wanted it to, still taken aback by the amount of blood on Link’s shirt. “Is that all…mine?”

“Most of it,” Link says with a nod, pointedly not looking down at himself. “I don’t want to think about it.”

Rhett snorts. “You can’t tell me you—“

“I’m not good with blood, okay?” Link snaps, and Rhett watches his fingers start to shakily undo the buttons. “Usually makes me pass out, so we’re lucky you were halfway in the car already, or we would both be smears on the fucking pavement right now.”

He tosses the shirt on the floor, and Rhett notices with chagrin that the blood has seeped through the shirt, stained his chest, too. It’s smeared all the way down him, his skin dark with it. Only now does the smell finally hit him, and he’s dry-heaving before he registers anything fully.

“ _Crap_ ,” Link frantically whispers, moving across the room again. He’s pushing a garbage can under Rhett’s face, telling him, “Don’t Ralph in my bed, man.”

Nothing comes up, but he does wretch a few times, painful and loud. Link holds the garbage can still while he does, still shirtless, face blank of any emotion. By the time Rhett is pushing at the can weakly, Link tells him, “There’s two pills on the table right there. Take both of ‘em. I’m going shower.”

Before he thinks about it, Rhett reaches out for Link’s hand, stilling him. “Don’t leave me.”

The thing is, Rhett doesn’t handle not feeling well in any way that is mature or dignified. Last time he was sick, he’d spent a week at Stevie’s, being fed soup and listening to Cassie talk about coins and plants all day in a way that was way more comforting than he’ll ever openly admit. He’d only cried twice, both times because of the same commercial, and both times when no one else was around. And that was just the flu.

He’s never been shot before, but already he feels the spool of his sanity, his comfort, his _stability_ —he feels it unraveling. He feels the tears pooling in his eyes, feels the lump in his throat. “Look, I’m—“ he starts, shaking his head and pointedly looking away when Link doesn’t say anything, doesn’t so much as flinch to move away.

Link cuts him off with, “Man, I gotta go wash all this off. And then I gotta clean my car, because you bled all over it.”

“I’ll go with you,” Rhett says, already moving to stand. He manages to sit up, ignoring the way his head swims, the way his stomach lurches again.

He’s swinging his legs over the side of the bed, carefully cradling his arm to his chest when he hears Link let out a soft, hysterical laugh of disbelief. It’s followed by a sigh, and Rhett would comment on it if he weren’t too busy focusing on making sure his legs don’t fall out underneath him. When he stands up straight, he sways nauseatingly.

“Alright, big guy, just—“ and Link is there in a second, pushing in under his arm and pressing in close for support. “Let me fix that bandage for you first, okay?”

Before he can gruff out a confirmation, Link is leading him through the house. The trek to the kitchen is a lot less difficult than he anticipated, and after a few steps, he tells Link to let him try on his own. He manages okay, taking it slow and easy. His head sort of swims and it reminds him to ask, “How long was I out?”

“Only a couple hours,” Link says, watching him walk carefully. “You came to enough at one point to help me get you into the house.”

“Is that how you got so…?” He lets the sentence die, choosing to wave his hand in Link’s general direction, indicating the blood all over him.

Link chuckles. “No. This was from me fishing the bullets out of you in the car.”

Rhett very pointedly doesn’t think about it.

“You should go to the hospital tomorrow. I stitched you up the best I could, but.” He holds his hands up. “Shaky hands aren’t great for medical procedures. Also, like I said before, I’m not great with blood.”

Rhett very pointedly doesn’t think about that, either. Instead, he puts all of his energy and attention into walking, following Link into the kitchen, where there are still a couple of first aid kits open on the counter. There’s blood here, too.

And, in the corner, leaning against the cabinets, is the artist and his supplies, walking through a field, on his way to Tarascon. There’s a hysterical sound building in the back of his throat that he pushes down just in time. His head throbs in sympathy, and he wipes a hand over his face.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Link’s smile, how it morphs into something akin to pride, to that touch of danger that started all of this. A gentle pat on the back turns his attention back to the situation at hand, and Link uses a little bit of pressure to guide him over to a chair. He spins, straddles the chair, and listens to Link mess with the items in the first aid kit.

“So how did Frank know?” Rhett asks now that the tension has died down, now that his head has stopped screaming at him.

“You remember our little friend at the club, I’m sure,” Link mutters. Rhett turns his head enough to watch as Link soaks some gauze in alcohol. “I imagine it was his fault.” He gives Rhett a sympathetic look, undoes the bandage barely sticking to Rhett’s shoulder, and unceremoniously holds the gauze there instead.

It shocks a shout out of Rhett, makes him grit his teeth against the pain, and he does his absolute best not to jerk away. Even so, he grinds out a, “Fuck, stop it,” and a feeble attempt at a swat with his other arm.

“You’ll be fine. It’ll stop hurting in a second,” Link tells him.

“Yeah, like you’d fuckin’ know,” Rhett hisses meanly. Almost immediately, Link is twisting and pointing at the scar on his side with a raised eyebrow.

With a sour smile, Link says again, “It’ll stop hurting in a second.”

Rhett breathes out heavily, drops his chin to his chest and squeezes his eyes shut until, sure enough, the burning dulls to a steady, bearable throb. As soon as that happens, Link pulls it away from him, letting the cool air rush through him, giving him chills.

His brain works to put things together, get back on track with the story while Link repeats the process to the other spot on his arm that hurts. This one is lower down, more in the muscle of his arm while the other was closer to his armpit. The shock the alcohol on the gauze doesn’t hurt any less this time, but Link doesn’t comment on it again. Rhett just grits his teeth and shakes his head through the pain, and stutters out a breath when it fades.

Link makes a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat.

Finally, things start making since in Rhett’s brain. “So, guy at the club sees us with Sheila and tells Frank. George is really that important of a guy that even Frank knows who he is?”

“George is the owner of that club,” Link says.

And Rhett feels something in him shake loose. “George is part of the mafia. That’s why—“

“That’s why his nephews had no problems trying to shoot us down. It’s the family business.” Rhett spins around in the chair a little awkwardly, sits back down so he’s facing Link. “We just got lucky.”

“You walked into a mafia boss’s house with the intentions of robbing from him, and all you armed yourself with was a handgun?” Rhett asks, and Link smirks, shrugs his shoulder.

“I’m a little reckless, sometimes,” is his answer. His fingers twitch while he unrolls more gauze, leaning in to begin wrapping it around Rhett’s arm.

Anger washes through Rhett, pure and hot and red, and he knows that if he weren’t hurt right now, he’d be beating the shit out this smug little bastard. What he settles for now is telling him, “You almost got me fucking killed because ‘you’re a little reckless, sometimes’?”

“I got you out of there, didn’t I?” Link says, wiping at his forehead. “I carried light because they’d be able to tell if I wasn’t. I’ve been in this game long enough to know how to play, alright?”

He none-too-lightly wrenches Rhett’s arm up, making him cry out as bright, hot pain shoots through his shoulder. Link’s hand keeps his arm there while he wraps the gauze carefully, a little bit too tight to be comfortable, but at least it won’t move.

“How’d we even get out of there?” Rhett decides to ask, because the whole night is a blur to him. By all rhyme and reason, they should both be dead right now.

Link guides his arm back down, but motions for him to stand up. As Rhett gets to his feet, Link tells him, “A couple of ways.” He gestures for Rhett to spread his arms, and gets on his tiptoes when Rhett works at getting them up and spread. “While you were upstairs, they came to the living room, noticed I was already in the house, and went back to the library. I followed them.”

“Y’all were in there when the gunfire started.” It’s not a question. That’s what makes the most sense, and Link nods his confirmation while he unrolls an ace bandage. “Who shot first?”

“They did,” Link says calmly. “Their aim sucked.”

“Anybody die?” he asks.

Link’s fingers are soft when he puts a hand on Rhett’s chest, steadies himself while he leans up even further to get the ace bandage around his chest. He works carefully, going under each arm so it acts as better support, twisting it down over Rhett’s bicep. It’s supported under his right armpit, crisscrossed over his chest and back, and winding down his left arm. This close, Rhett can smell the blood on him, and he breathes through it, wondering briefly if the smell even bothers Link at all.

Link hums under his breath, and when he gets back on his heels, he tells Rhett, “Nah. They won’t be able to walk very well for a while, though. A bullet to the knee or leg for each of them, and it was easy enough to get away. One of them followed me, though.” And he grazes his hand over where Rhett hurts the most, not enough pressure to make it worse, but enough to get his point across.

Rhett understands what he’s trying to convey, and his arm throbs in agreement.

“So what hit me in the head?”

Link’s eyebrows raise, and he shakes his head. His hands are deft and quick as they continue wrapping Rhett in the ace bandage. “Nothing,” he says. “You fell. Hit your head on the concrete.”

“And you managed to get me back in the car that easily?” Nothing but dead weight, the amount of upper body strength that would have been needed is a lot more than he’d think Link has. But Link just nods his head, shrugs his shoulders.

When he clips the ace bandage, secures it, he pats Rhett on the chest in a way that feels almost condescending somehow, and says, “I managed. I’m a lot stronger than I look.”

Rhett’s angry. He doesn’t know what else to feel right now, despite how badly he wants to feel grateful that he’s alive. Underneath the rage, maybe he is. Fuck, maybe he’s even a little bit _indebted_ to Link. But he can’t tap into that, can’t feel anything other than angry.

And so with Link being cocky like he is, patting Rhett like he’s a child, like he fucked up in some way rather than fallen directly into the trap, into the nest—it’s enough to have him shoving Link back with his good arm. When Link just grins at him, gets his footing back again, he does it again, harder, until Link’s legs fall out from under him and he’s landing on the tile, head bumping against the refrigerator.

It takes Rhett a second to realize Link’s laughing. When he does, he rears forward, hand in a fist, and stops just short of punching him in the face. Instead, he punches the fridge, watching with some twisted sort of satisfaction that he managed to put a dent in it.

“Come on,” Link says, still smiling, bright and violent from the floor. He’s still covered in blood, in Rhett’s blood. “Come on, it’ll make you feel better.”

He tilts his head up, _presents_ himself for Rhett, and nods his head. God, Rhett wants to. They lock eyes, and Link never stops smiling, and Rhett fucking wants to. 

The first time Rhett ever punched someone in the face was when he was in high school. Thinking back on it, he doesn’t really know why it escalated to a fist fight, but he’d won in the end. It was over quick, and before he’d even realized what was happening, his basketball coach was pulling him off the other kid by the back of his shirt, hollering something about calming down, about counting to ten. At the time, he’d been so angry, he’d seen red.

There’ve been a lot more moments like that since, where he’s looking down at somebody, got them pinned to a wall while he wails into them, shouting orders or questions at them while they sob and try their best to fight back. He’s big, though. He’s big and he’s quick, and he’s always a step ahead.

But every single fight he’s been in has been fair, nonetheless. He’s not like Link. He doesn’t play dirty.

So when Link tilts his head up further, stays down, and asks for it, Rhett steps back.

He walks away.

There’s a patio out back that looks out onto the rest of the property. There’s a table, some chairs, and that’s where Rhett ends up. He didn’t go there consciously, just sort of blindly looking for an exit, for a way to get some fresh air and clear his head. As soon as he’s there, he’s reminded that he’s almost naked, modesty conserved only by a small pair of boxer briefs. It’s not in him to care right now.

He’d wanted to hurt Link. He still does, if he’s honest with himself, because of his role in the pain shooting through Rhett’s arm. And because of the role in the fear that he was going to die tonight. He’d played with Rhett’s life, dangled it on a string in front of a family of people who would have had no problems at all putting a bullet in between his eyes. They wouldn’t have had any qualms with doing much, much worse than that, either.

He’d done it all for a painting, all because of that greed that gives people sticky fingers. It’s the same thing that’s given Rhett sticky fingers his whole life.

That’s—that puts things in a whole new perspective for him, when he thinks it.

If he puts Link in the same category as himself, which isn’t exactly far from reality, it smarts. Only because he’s looked at Link as some monster, some terrible human being for the things that he’s done. Which it’s not to say he isn’t a monster, it’s just that Rhett’s got to stop subcategorizing himself. How many times has Rhett put people in danger for the same reasons? In the past ten years, how many lives were lost because of Rhett? Stevie’s voice rings out in his head, telling him the same thing.

Link is the same type of monster Rhett is. It’ll probably be healthier in the long run for him to realize that.

When he replays the situation with that thought in mind, it’s hard to be upset at Link. However, it’s much easier to be upset at himself. Had he taken a step back and swallowed his pride, realized he isn’t on some higher plane than Link is, he would have been able to do this job just like he’s done all the others. He would have been able to actually be useful tonight as something other than a scapegoat.

The door opens and shuts behind him, but he makes no move at turning and facing Link.

“Are you done stewing yet, or should I leave you alone for a little while?” he hears, and when he finally turns to look at Link, he’s cleaning his glasses with a soft looking cloth.

He’s washed all the blood off of him, it looks like, and Rhett is thankful to not have to look at it anymore, at least.

“You know,” he starts, because there’s been an ongoing conversation since that first night, one they’ve never acknowledged, “I was convinced we weren’t anything alike.”

Link pulls a metal chair from where it’s tucked under the table, sits down in it while Rhett formulates his next sentence. Part of him is waiting for a rebuttal, an argument, but all he gets is silent encouragement to continue.

With a sigh, he says, “That night we met, I kept reminding myself that we’re different. ‘He’s a killer, Rhett, you can’t be anything like him.’” He sucks in a shuddering breath, makes eye contact with Link. There’s a smile there, like he knows what Rhett’s going to say next. He doesn’t let it stop him. “But I’m wrong about that, aren’t I?”

In lieu of answer, Link shrugs his shoulders. It makes his teeth feel gritty, makes his hands shake just a little bit.

He tells Rhett, “You ever think about the fact that your organs never see the light of day? Not a single time, unless they’re coming out of your body. But they’re the things keeping you alive. All those cells, alive inside pitch black _nastiness_ , keeping you standing upright.” He pauses, swings his legs up to rest on the table. “They’ve got to be kept hidden, kept in that darkness, in order for us to be alive. But sometimes, one or two of those organs has to be plucked out of you. The messed up thoughts, how morality doesn’t mean much to me, all the things about me that you decided to deem ‘evil’—I’m supposed to keep all that hidden.

Do I think we’re the same? No. And the difference between you and me is that I don’t keep it hidden. In the kitchen, just now? I would have loved for you to have hit me, man, pluck out a few of those organs because of me. It would have meant that we were on the same level for a second.”

It makes Rhett breathe out a laugh, wipe a hand over his face. Tonight has been too much, over-stimulating and terrible, and he wants to sleep. This conversation weighs him down even more, sticking to his bones unpleasantly.

And there’s something in Link’s voice that sounds a lot like a challenge when he says, “I think I could get you to break real easy, if you want the truth.”

He could. Rhett thinks tonight is enough proof of that, that he’d so easily given in, bowed to fit the mold that Link had set for him. There was a threat that started all of this, the edge of a knife at his throat, but in all honesty, it hadn’t even taken that much to persuade him into this. Shame burns hot and bright in his stomach, but he doesn’t give Link the satisfaction of knowing that it’s there.

The other chair is already pulled out, and he lowers himself into it carefully. “Thank you.”

“You don’t mean it,” Link says. “Even if you think you do, you don’t.”

“Just take it for now, yeah?” Because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever say it again. And he’s alive because of Link right now, so he owes him at least that much. Link nods his head, puts his hands up as if to say ‘okay’.

It’s enough, for now. For both of them, he thinks. The outside air is hot and damp, like it usually is, but somehow it feels heavier tonight. Rhett thinks maybe it’s going to rain, and he hopes it does. The rain can cleanse the city, wash away that grime, the layer of stickiness covering everything tonight.

While he sits and stares out into Link’s backyard, listening to the sounds of crickets and traffic in the distance, he breathes in a new outlook on this whole thing. Maybe it’s because he’s been shot for the first time in his life, been thrown into a situation way out of his league and failed miserably, but something about this feels like a breakthrough.

He doesn’t think about standing, doesn’t register that Link is following him into the house until they’re in the kitchen again, where the air smells like bleach and air freshener in a sickening combination. Link puts a hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of his reverie.

Before he can think too hard about it, he spins around and pulls Link to him, craning his neck down to press their mouths together. He tastes the satisfaction on Link’s lips, hears the way he sucks in a sharp breath that feels a lot like victory under Rhett’s hand. Link kisses him back, hot and hard, working at gaining dominance, but Rhett pulls away before it escalates.

Link nips at Rhett’s bottom lip, hard enough to draw a little bit of blood, and Rhett wipes it away with a hard look tossed Link’s way. “I haven’t bled enough for you tonight or something?”

“Oh, baby, not at all,” Link tells him with a smile that wracks through Rhett, makes him shiver. “You should get some sleep.”

“I should go home,” he says. “For a while, probably.”

“And here I was thinking we could have a sleepover.” Out of the corner of his eye, Rhett notices a smudge of blood on the counter that Link must have missed. “I thought we could braid each other’s hair, paint our nails, talk about boys.”

Rhett chuckles, shakes his head. There’s a pull in his arm, a deep ache in his shoulder that reminds him why he wants to go home. His bed is there, for one, and he just wants to be able to breathe for a second. He needs some space, a chance to get his footing again. With Link around, that’s not going to happen.

“I’m going home, man,” Rhett tells him. They’re still close, and so it doesn’t take much for Link to lean in, pull Rhett to him again, slot their mouths together for another kiss. This time, Link groans into it,

He licks deep into Rhett’s mouth, pulls out a sound from him that mimics his own. This kiss is different than the others they’ve shared since they met. It’s different than the very first, when Link had pulled him close in the club they met in, lips barely ghosting over each other before he was sitting up straight again, shooting Rhett a wink. And the second, later that night, when they were walking through the threshold of Link’s home, only just inside the door, and Rhett was pushed against a wall, heart hammering away in his chest; and then Link had kissed him, hard and fast and pulling Rhett’s attention away from fear and adrenaline.

The third, right before he’d made Rhett call Frank later in the night, which was all for Link, just him letting Rhett know he’d won, that the game was over, check fucking mate—that one was possessive and rough, Link’s lips soft and plush, his teeth coming out to play.

And then the one just moments ago, Rhett pulling him close and giving in. That was impulsive and it tasted a bit like the blood still in his nostrils and nervous energy finally finding a place to settle.

But this one is different. This one is Link getting his hands on Rhett’s waist, licking his way inside and kissing Rhett hard enough to reverberate through him. He feels it in his gut, a fluttering of butterflies that he only has a time to realize are there before Link is pulling away again.

“Sweet dreams, Rhett,” Link tells him as he’s stepping back, wiping at his mouth with a couple of fingers. He licks his lips and gives Rhett a once-over before he’s leaving the room. “You can consider that my ‘thank you’.”

Rhett stands in the kitchen catching his breath until he hears the sound of a shower starting up. Then, he finds his clothes, gets dressed with only a little bit of grunting and struggling, and he leaves.

In the car, he doesn’t think about the kiss, and he doesn’t think about the bullet wounds in his arm. He doesn’t think about much, rolling the windows down and driving way too fast and taking the long way home. By the time he’s pulling into his driveway, he feels a little lighter, a little less like he’s falling into something he shouldn’t be.

His house is too quiet when he walks in, the normal hum that’s always there. It almost feels weird being here, after everything that’s happened tonight. Things sort of settle around him, and he’s on a completely different plane of life than he was eight hours ago.

He tugs his shirt over his head carefully, slips out of his jeans, right there in his living room, gathering them up in his arms and pulling his wallet out of his pocket. His room isn’t far away, but even so, he deposits his clothes in the wash, turns it on without thinking about it, wanting the smell to leave as soon as possible. And then he ends up back into the living room, eases onto the couch, feet propped up on one end, head on the other. The silence, the darkness, it helps his nerves, and he shuts his eyes.

They pop open just in time, an uneasy feeling of being watched making him jerk up, catching a glimpse of a body moving through the dark. There’s a loud crashing sound, and he’s on his feet in seconds. He’s got a bat by the front door, so he goes there first, snatches it in the arm he can use.

The crash was most likely the intruder running into the cabinet door that never closes, his own shins covered in bruises from doing the same thing, so he heads towards the kitchen. His senses are fine-tuned, heart beating fast and hard in his chest, and he can feel his palms starting to sweat.

There is a moment, right before he comes face-to-face with his intruder, where he thinks it’s Link. A flash of dark hair, a pair of bright eyes, but the face is wrong, and he’s not thinking before he’s swinging the bat.

The collision is visceral and he hears the crack in sickening high definition, and his stomach rolls. He catches a glimpse of a beard as the bat hits the side of his face, blood splattering onto his floor. Once he’s sure the guy is down, he steps over his body, takes a look at the features that he recognizes.

Angry and threatened, he drops to his knees over the guy, straddling his chest while he tosses the bat to the side, grabs the front of his shirt, tugs him up and close so he can ask, “What does Frank want?”

The guy’s face turns up into a bloody smile, and Rhett says again, “What does Frank want?”

He gets nothing, and he drops the guy down onto the floor again, rearing his arm back, and decking him in the face. His hand, which is already swollen from earlier, throbs in a pitiful grievance that Rhett ignores in favor of swinging again.  

“What the fuck does Frank want?” he asks again, and this time, the guy spits out a mouthful of blood, landing square on Rhett’s chest, sliding down in a slimy plop. Rhett makes sure to bend just so, watching in a sick satisfaction as it lands back in the guys face. He punches again, watching the guy’s eyes roll back just a little bit.

His other arm screams at him, pain shooting down from his shoulder to his hand. Still, he punches the guy again. “What does Frank want?”

“Your head on a stick,” he gets told, garbled around blood and spit. Rhett will give the guy this much: he never stops smiling, not when two of his teeth pop out, landing somewhere down the back of his throat, or when his nose breaks twice, or when his cheek bone shatters under the force of Rhett’s hand.

All it takes is a quick blow to the side of his head, a hard punch that hurts Rhett’s hand to the point where he knows he’s broken a couple of fingers, and his eyes are shut. His chest is still rising and falling under Rhett, so he’s still alive, but he’s out for now.

Working on autopilot, covered in blood, Rhett moves through his house in search of rope or something he can tie this guy up with. There’s a name dancing on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t remember it right now. He isn’t in shock, but his hands won’t stop shaking. He finds some cables in a drawer, doesn’t recognize them as anything he’d be upset to lose, and grabs those.

It’s hard to maneuver dead weight with only one arm, but he manages. He hogties him, careful and deliberate even with his shaking hands. There’s blood on his kitchen floor, sliding down his chest, pooling on his knuckles.

His hands are still shaking when he finds his phone, tossed on the coffee table in the living room.

It rings twice, and Link is picking up. He sounds like he was sleeping.

“Can you uh--. Frank,” is all he gets out before Link is cutting him off.

“I’m coming,” Link says, and the call ends just like that.

Rhett sits in the doorway of his kitchen while he waits, a knife in his hand, watching the guy take deep, shuddering breaths in his unconscious state.

This isn’t what he asked for. None of this was what he wanted. His home is tainted, now. It feels wrong all around him, when just a handful of moments ago, it had felt so comforting. It’s been ruined, and he has no one to blame but himself.


	5. Finders Keepers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me over at [tumblr](http://cockymclaughlin.tumblr.com/) if that's something you're into

“You can’t live on my couch forever.”

He probably could, but the argument dies on his tongue. There isn’t an answer worth giving that he can think of, so he lets the sentence hang between them. She’s sitting on the couch next to him, taking up a lot less space, and he curls in just a little bit more, self-conscious all of a sudden.

“Cassie’s worried about you,” Stevie says, and it swells in his chest in the form of guilt. With a groan, he leans until his head is in her lap and he’s got his knees to his chest. One of her small hands land on his head, fingers carding through his hair. “ _I’m_ worried about you.”

“He’s left three messages in my voicemail,” he tells her, his voice coming out raspy. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls his phone from his pocket and holds it out. “Wanna hear them?”

“Not really?” She sighs heavily. They aren’t that great, anyway. Mostly they’re vague, Link’s voice growing more and more frustrated the longer he couldn’t find Rhett. There isn’t any anger in them, but they’re all delicately laced with a warning that Rhett felt rush through him like a livewire when he’d first listened to them. “Rhett, I want you to listen to me because I’m not saying this more than once.”

He nods, braces himself for whatever is going to come out of her mouth. He really can’t live on her couch forever, but the idea of going back home bristles through him. There’s a ghost lingering in his halls, and he doesn’t feel quite up to facing it. Her fingers work through his hair carefully, almost like it’s an afterthought, and he’s grateful for the contact.

“You told me this was your fault. Your exact words to me were ‘I have no one but myself to blame for this’,” she says. There’s a pause, and her fingers tighten in his hair for a second. “And you’re right.”

He moves to sit up, but she holds him down. “Stevie—“

“No. You’re listening to me, remember?” He doesn’t want to anymore.

“Stevie, you don’t—“

“Oh, _I don’t_? I don’t what, Rhett? I don’t know?” She’s angry, and Rhett feels vulnerable both physically and emotionally, his head cradled delicately in her hands and his pride woven through the roots of her teeth, the muscles of her tongue and lips. She could bruise both so easily and he isn’t ready for the impact.

She says, “I’m not sure if you remember this or not, but I didn’t ask to be involved in any of this. I never asked to know about anything. So far, since we’ve been friends, you’ve shown me dead bodies, crime scenes, and stuff you’ve _stolen_ from people.”

He opens his mouth to talk, but it snaps shut again after just a second, listening to her inhale sharply instead while she gathers her thoughts. When she talks again, he hears her voice shake around the syllables. “You’ve made me involved. If you get caught, the police can arrest me for not reporting you. So, no, McLaughlin, you don’t get to tell me that I don’t know. Especially not when you show up at my door in the middle of the night, telling me you’ve got a fucking price on your head like something out of a goddamn movie.”

Cassie comes in, and Rhett locks eyes with her before he sees her eyes flick up to meet Stevie’s. She turns around and leaves the room, wide-eyed and nodding.

“You also don’t get to live in my house for two weeks, bleed all over my bathroom, and fucking disappear like I know you’re going to do if I tell you to leave.” There isn’t any arguing. She has every right to feel this way, to react this way, and he isn’t going to cheapen this for her by asking her to sugarcoat anything or saying she’s wrong in any way.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, pressing his head back into her fingers, already missing the comforting feeling of her nails scratching gently at his scalp. “Really, really sorry.”

“I really getting tired of hearing you say that,” she sighs, and gives into his silent request. “I just want you to get off my couch, get some fresh air, go to your fucking doctor’s appointments like a real adult, and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

He nods his head. It doesn’t mean he’s going to actually do any of that, but at least this way she knows he’s heard her without him having to vocalize anything. When her fingernails dig into his scalp, hard enough to have him hissing, swatting at her weakly, she says, “That wasn’t what I wanted to say. So, now you better listen for real.”

She stops scratching at him, rests her hands on his head again, gentle as ever. He says, “Okay,” and steels himself for the conversation he’s been dreading for a while.

“You made a decision a long time ago, and then you continued making decisions until you landed yourself in this situation. And now that you’re here, you don’t get to act like a victim. Nobody has ever forced you into any of the situations you’ve gotten yourself into. I think you and I both know what you need to do, Rhett. And I think Link does, too, but I also think he’s waiting for permission.”  There’s a pause, and Rhett thinks there’s going to be more, but she just sighs, and he feels the way she sags down into the couch, as if all the tension in her body has left just like that. The pinch in his gut feels a lot more familiar than it used to once upon a time.

What she said isn’t exactly correct. Link doesn’t need permission to do anything, least of all from Rhett. Saving her a few details, he says, “He’s not waiting for permission. He’s having fun.”

She sucks in a breath, almost like she doesn’t want to say what’s coming out next, “I’m afraid for you. Cassie is afraid for you. And we’re here if you need help. Our couch is here for you to sleep on, and our bathroom is here for you to bleed in if it comes to that again. You’ve just gotta get up sometimes, go outside, and stop pretending like this is all just gonna go away.”

His head in his hands, eyes shut against the circuits firing in his brain, telling him that Stevie has been telling him the truth, that he’s been a bit of an ass about all of this, he tells her, “You’re right, Stevie.”

He feels her put her hand on his back, feels her drum her fingers along his spine while he rubs at his eyes and nods his head. It’s not that the words are hard to hear, because she’s just vocalized that itchy, uncomfortable sheen of fear that’s been making all of this so hazy. It’s nothing he hasn’t known was there all along. He was just content to keep it there and not stir it up. In his head, if he just cooperated enough to assuage Link, to make it out of this intact and alive, he would be fine. Frank’s present hiding in his home was enough to shock that thought away, it was a realization cracking through his skull.  

More or less, he feels an obligation to face this head-on now. He feels exposed, like a scab has been peeled off. Nerve endings are exposed, now, that prevent him from being able to sit back and allow things to happen to him as opposed to doing exactly what he’s known this would boil down to since the very beginning. He’s got to actually take part, now. To dig himself out of this, to end up on the winning side, he has to take the reins from Link and participate like he’d agreed to do in the beginning instead of sticking his head in the sand and trying to will it away. Out of sight, out of mind isn’t exactly working for him.

And Stevie can’t be faulted for her frustrations. So instead of being upset or angry or all the things she probably expects him to be right now, he’s going to use this as an awakening. He’s going to let her worries and her frustrations bleed into his own and push him into being proactive about things instead of cowering just in case something goes wrong.

There was a distinct moment, when he first met Stevie, where he realized that he liked her. It was specific, and it was when she rolled her eyes at a joke he made, cocked her head to the side and said, “I think you think you’re funny, and I’m trying to figure out what would give you that impression.”

And similarly to that night, today he’s watching her not take any of his shit. She never has, not even for a second. Consistently, Stevie’s put him in his place, set him back on track.

So he thinks he owes her this time to stand up, clean up his crap from around her living room, and head back to his own house.

Before he leaves, he pulls her close, and she mumbles into his chest, “Call this assassin guy or whatever, and figure something out, okay?”

He kisses her on the top of the head, and leaves her with a promise that he’ll get this sorted out, not to worry about him. She cuts him a pair of eyes, and tells him they’re having lunch Wednesday at the café. As he’s leaving, he realizes he feels better.

When he gets in the car, he pulls out his phone, and dials Link’s number without thinking about it. As it rings, he can feel his pulse speeding up, his chest going tight, and he breathes through it, reminding himself that this is necessary. This is important.

“Well,” Link says coolly when the ringing stops, “I see you’re alive after all. I was getting ready to send out a search party.”

“As if you’re owed enough favors to put together a whole party.”

There’s a pause, long enough to get awkward. “A one-man party, then.”

“You know where I live,” Rhett says, a bit incredulously. “You wouldn’t have had to look very hard, man.”

“Ah, but this is where the plot thickens, Rhett. You weren’t home,” Link tells him, and there’s a wet sound on the other end, running water. “I’m not stupid enough not to look there.”

Briefly, Rhett wonders if he should be shocked that Link went to his house to look for him. He decides no. Still, “I’m not telling you where I was, so don’t bother asking.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Link tells him. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“This is a courtesy call. Letting you know I’m alive,” Rhett says.

Link laughs lowly, there’s another wet sound, and he teases, “Nothing else? My bath would be a lot more interesting if there was more to this courtesy call than a reassurance of something I was already sure of.”

“Any jobs coming up?” Like peeling off a band-aid. He may as well cut straight to the point, by-pass any bullshit of pussyfooting around the conversation. Link hums an affirmation, low and too-sweet, and Rhett can practically hear his smile over the phone. “Anything worth our time?”

“’Our time’. I got chills when you said that,” Link says with a laugh. “Yeah, they’re worth our time. How’s the arm?”

“Fine.” He’d gotten Link’s sloppy stitches removed, redone in two neat rows of seven. They threw around the idea of physical therapy at the hospital, hoping he’d catch the bait, but he’d politely smiled them off. “Redid your shitty stitches, and everything is working well enough.”

“Good,” Link says. “I got another present from Frank the other day.”

Bile rises in the back of his throat like a reflex. He doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to entertain the conversation. There’s an appeal at the idea of hanging up right now, pretending like nothing happened. But he pushes through it, says, “Did you?”

This is the part he hates, the part where Link acknowledges what he does, where he makes Rhett remember who he’s working with. On the other end, Link sighs heavily. “I didn’t kill this one. He ran pretty much as soon as he realized I knew who he was. We were at Whole Foods, man. Can you believe that?”

“Can’t imagine the management would have liked cleaning up blood out of their quinoa balls,” Rhett jokes. It’s a line he’s toeing, and Link laughs, sweet and high and genuine, from his belly. It’s enough to have Rhett chuckling along with him.

“It _would_ be organic, though,” Link says through his laughter. “So, there’s that.”

Rhett allows himself to laugh at that, too, shaking his head despite Link being unable to see him do it. “How long is that bath gonna last?” he asks once they both quiet down.

He can hear the distinct sound of a body moving through water, presumably Link standing up in the tub, and he smiles. “You headin’ over?” Link asks. If Rhett lets himself look into the lull of his voice, he can convince himself he makes it sound less predatory than it is. This balance is important to Link; reminding Rhett that he’s in charge, always in charge, is important to Link.

Butterflies flutter in his stomach, but he bites through them and says, “Try to be decent in ten, okay?”

“Good joke. See you when you get here.”

As soon as the line goes dead, Rhett tosses his phone onto the passenger seat, rolls all the windows down, and turns his music up.

California has this way of making things seems bigger, larger than life. Rhett’s travelled a lot, moved cross-country when he was barely twenty, went on a class trip to Europe in high school. He’s met more types of people than he can count, knows about religions and cultures across the whole world. And yet, California has him stumped. There’s something in the air—and maybe it’s a subconscious thing for him, having the memories he has associated with it—that makes everything seem just a little bit unreal. He thinks it’s got to do with the history, with the cities being as bombastic as they are. There’s history oozing from California’s every pore, and people who thrive on fabricating the same story for themselves.

This state is full of fake, full of plastic, full of the rich and dirty and beautiful.

And right in the center of it all is Link Neal, soaking up as much of it as he can. Rhett supposes he should take a page out of Link’s book and soak a little bit of it up.

When he gets to Link’s house, making a point to knock on the door this time, Link greets him with a kiss that catches Rhett off-guard. It probably shouldn’t, but it shocks through him. Link’s wet hair drips on his shirt, sending chills down his spine when the drops hit. His mouth tastes like toothpaste, and Rhett can’t help but ask, “Are you just waking up?”

Link waves him off with a shake of his head, turns to walk through the house and chooses instead to say, “I got the results for our friend on his way to Tarascon. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. It felt too important.” His eyes linger to Rhett’s shoulder, and he cocks his head, a smirk on his lips.

He’s toying with Rhett, dangling it in his face, and he wonders if one day it’ll get old for Link. For now, he rolls his eyes and lets out an annoyed sigh. Part of him doesn’t want to know the results. He swears his shoulder throbs when he asks, “Are we roasting marshmallows tonight or did you just become filthy rich?”

“I’m already filthy rich,” Link says with a shrug. “I was going more for bragging rights. But I hope you like s’mores, big guy.”

Rhett is mad for a second when he catches sight of the painting, propped up on an expensive-looking easel in the living room. “I knew it was a fake, Link,” he says, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He reaches out, runs his fingers over the paint, feeling the raises of thicker paint, the curves, the brushstrokes. The paint is cool under his skin, reminding him of high school art, dipping his hand in paint and smearing it over a canvas.

“I had to see for myself,” Link tells him, voice gone a little quiet. He adjusts his glasses on his face, smirks at Rhett. “Didn’t it feel good when you got your hands on it?”

The sunlight is pouring into the house from a big window, streams of light hitting the painting and making the colors stand out. It’s a beautiful painting, fake or not. Whoever did this one did a good job, convinced enough people to nearly cost Rhett his life.

“No,” Rhett lies. “I was too scared to feel good.”

 “I know you’re lying, man,” he says with a smirk. “Me and that painting have a lot in common.”

There’s a moment then, where everything feels sort of thick, like he’s wading through water or pushing himself through the humidity of a summer day. Link drums his fingers on the back of the plush black couch and Rhett shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He supposes Link’s waiting for an answer, but he doesn’t think he could give him one even if he tried.

There’s a fuzzy layer Rhett has been trying hard not to think about since that first night. Everyone in this business, on varying degrees of severity, gets off on that fear. Rhett isn’t excused from that fact. It’s how he keeps going, that dark, heady motivation disguising itself in adrenaline. A power trip hidden below the surface, bubbling up only in the privacy of his own home.

Link made it very clear that he gets off on seeing that fear in someone’s eyes, knowing he’s got the upper hand—that first night they met absolutely solidified that knowledge for Rhett. And as for Rhett himself, he likes to feel someone dig their fingers in too hard. He likes to win, likes to fight for that title. So perhaps Link and that painting do indeed have a bit in common. Except, when he touches the painting too hard, he doesn’t have the press of a knife to his spine in retaliation. The canvas gives under the weight of his hand, doesn’t fight back like Link does. He doesn’t know what it means that the thought leaves him feeling a bit hollow with disappointment.

“Oh? Have we just made a discovery about ourselves?” Link asks, pulling him away from his thoughts.

Rhett chuckles, a little embarrassed. “No. I knew this about myself. _You_ just didn’t know it about me.”

The smile on Link’s face grows, and he bites his bottom lip, shakes his head. “Baby, if you thought I didn’t know that, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

The conversation ends there, with Rhett shaking his head, and Link somehow manages to guide Rhett through the house, through the same set of doors Rhett remembers walking through in the dark. When they’re outside, he motions Rhett to sit, and as soon as they’re there, he’s opening a couple bottles of beer he pulls from a cooler set off to the side that Rhett hadn’t noticed the other night.

And that’s where they sit for the day. They tear through a case of beer easily, another one being opened right after. Link pulls out his phone at one point, some time when the sun starts going down, and runs through a job with Rhett. It’s simple, this time. No prior research necessary. No mob bosses. No guns, even.

“That shoulder needs healing before we do anything crazy,” Link tells him, and Rhett couldn’t agree more.

He does point out, “I think it’s funny how you think ‘laying low’ means breaking into a fifth-story apartment to look for a necklace.”

Link scoffs, standing to get another beer. “How would you do it, then?”

“Low-hanging fruit, man. Storage units, garages, stuff like that.” He’s got about a third of his bottle left, but he still takes the one Link hands him, putting it on the coaster in front of him. Link stuffs his in a koozie, and eyes Rhett carefully. “The locks are always easy to pick, codes easy to break. Very little work, usually for a fair enough pay off.”

“Next time I’ve got a buyer looking for lawn equipment, I’ll be sure to hit you up, brother,” Link tells him, tone gone completely mocking. Rhett throws a wad of wet beer label at him and Link throws it back with a laugh.

They watch the sunset together, Link with his feet propped up on the table, nursing a beer carefully; Rhett watches more of Link than the actual sunset, but blames it entirely on the beer. Today has been confusing. This easy banter, the back-and-forth such a contrast to the way his hands were so shaky not long ago. And staring at Link in the natural sunlight, taking in the slope of his nose, the meat of his cheeks, the plush outline of his lips when they press against the lip of the bottle—it makes him realize the question he wanted to ask feels too violent, too certain to disrupt this.

The conversation he came here to have gets lost in the changing colors of the sky. And then, he watches it dance in the flames as Link places the painting in them. Rhett watches the artist disappear into ash, the eulogy Link ad-libs while it burns ringing through the quiet of the night, punctuated by crackles of the wood below it and his own hysterical, drunken laughter.

The marshmallows they roast taste like failure, but Link straddles him in his seat, too many beers fueling the action, and kisses the assaulting taste right out of Rhett’s mouth. Link’s ass in his hands, crickets chirping, the fire crackling, Rhett allows himself to succumb. He doesn’t know how long they stay out there, Link licking into Rhett’s mouth for countless smooth, sloppy, soul-consuming minutes.

They don’t peel away from each other until the sun is already starting to turn the sky that soft, burnt orange of early morning. But by the time they’re stumbling inside, tired and drunk and licking the taste of each other off their lips, Rhett feels like he’s shed his skin, metamorphosed into something not quite himself. While he brushes his teeth in Link’s guest bathroom—toothpaste on his finger because Link couldn’t be bothered to find him a toothbrush—he tries to see if he changed any, but the face staring back at him is the same it’s always been.

\---

He wakes up on Link’s couch. The first thing he notices is that the sky outside is starting to go pink and orange again, streaming into the living room through the big windows.

The second thing he notices is Link, standing over him, saying his name, and holding a tiny, wriggling dog.

“Good morning,” Link says, and he takes a sip of whatever he’s got in the mug in his hands. “You slept a long time.”

“Beer makes me sleepy,” Rhett tells him, wiping the sleep from his eyes and squinting up at him. The dog stretches up to lick Link’s chin, and he turns his head to kiss her on the neck. “Cute dog.”

“This is Jade.” He unceremoniously puts her on Rhett’s chest. She’s content, choosing to calmly plop herself down and _hmph_ at him softly. “She’s been at a friend’s house for the past few weeks so I could work.”

Rhett looks up at him again, away from Jade, and catches him scrolling through his phone, brows furrowed. “What time is it?” he asks, too lazy to stretch and grab his phone off the coffee table. He has a sneaking suspicion it isn’t as late as Link is making him feel like it is.

“Almost noon,” Link tells him. “Feel like doing that job later?”

“Sure. Is Jade coming with us?” She perks up at the sound of her name, and he scratches behind her ears with a smile. Maybe he should get a dog. He likes Stevie’s dog enough, has taken many naps with him at his feet.

Link, a bemused look on his face, says, “Over my dead body.”

Jade, with a waggle, hops off of Rhett and onto the floor, running out of the living room entirely. He’s still half asleep, and Link starts talking again, words sounding more like mush in his brain than anything else. He pretends to listen, trying his best not to fall asleep entirely, humming softly when he feels it to be appropriate.

And then he hears, “—need your account information to transfer that money over.”

Somehow he’d forgotten about that part of this. The arrangement completely lost in translation with the turmoil of everything else going on. He peaks an eye open, catches Link with his arms crossed, smug look on his face. He says, “We can do that later. Sleep now.”

“No way, man. Go take a shower and start getting ready. Our window of time is small tonight,” Link tells him, shoving at the cushion Rhett’s head is on with his foot. “We’ve got to be there by seven. It’s already five.”

The tiles below his feet are cold when he finally stands, joints cracking, and Link only taking a big enough step back to not be in direct contact with Rhett. Usually, he’d be uncomfortable being this close to someone. Usually, he’d try to curve in on himself, side-step away until he was back in his own personal space. Something about Link, though, makes him feel okay with this. It’s not trust, he doesn’t think. But it’s something else, probably the same thing that was okay with Link climbing into his lap last night, too.

 Maybe it is trust.

He doesn’t flinch when Link circles his fingers around Rhett’s wrist, pulls him in close, and almost kisses him, pulling away at the last second with a face and a, “Gosh, your breath stinks. Shower is upstairs. Just change back into these clothes when you’re done.”

Rhett watches him disappear into the kitchen before he begins his search for the shower. He knows there’s one in Link’s room, and he wonders if he’d be pushing any buttons by using that one. Deciding it can’t hurt, he finds himself standing in front of a huge, two person shower. When he turns on both showerheads, watching the sprays from both meet in the middle, he smiles and steps inside.

There’s a moment, a decidedly foolish moment, where he wonders why Link would need a two person shower. And as he’s using his hands to scrub fruity smelling soap into his skin, one showerhead pounding at his back while the other hits him square in the chest, the realization sinks in. He wonders how much blood has gone down the drain in the center, how much time Link has spent pouring bleach over the tile, wiping away the evidence of his own violence.

The rest of his shower takes him a significantly shorter amount of time than he’d originally planned, and he’s stepping out in only a few minutes, shivering from more than just the change in temperature. As he’s pulling his pants back on, still missing his shirt, Link walks into the bathroom, forgoing a knock.

Rhett watches with a raised eyebrow as he walks straight over to the toilet, props a hand on the wall while he turns his head to look at Rhett. There’s a smirk there, a challenge that Link thinks he’s winning. With a shake of his head and an indelicate snort, Rhett just walks up to the mirror, leaning close so he can smooth his beard down, spike his hair up before it dries. There’s the unmistakable sound of Link peeing, a hum that Rhett chooses to ignore as he’s walking out of the room.

It takes them a small amount of time to gather themselves, run through the plan they loosely put together last night, and head out of the door. Rhett insists on driving again, and Link, with a smirk on his face, concedes.

By the time they’re pulling up to a parking garage a couple blocks away from the apartment building itself, Rhett feels focused. This feels more like a job he’s used to. It fits him like a second skin, and he sinks into the role easily. That familiar ease is back, and as they’re walking into the doors, it’s invigorating to take the lead, to be the one to smile at everyone in the halls.

One of the first things he was taught was to always look like you belong wherever you are. If you don’t give anyone a reason to be suspicious, then they won’t be. And it’s worked thus far with little to no exceptions. They walk through the building, ride up the elevator, find the door to the apartment they’re looking for at the very end of the floor, all with confidence and nonchalance.

This is what he’s used to. He ignores the pinch in his shoulder, forgets everything but the goal for the night, the plan they had devised the night before. He runs through it in his head one more time, and as he’s pulling out his lock pick from his wallet, there’s a giddy feeling bubbling up in his chest.

Gosh, there’s the rush he’d managed to lose track of. There it is, adrenaline and power rolling over his veins like the cool waves of a stormy ocean. Just as Link is putting a hand on the small of his back, he’s turning the doorknob and letting them into the studio apartment.

Inside, it’s big and organized, and Rhett knows exactly where they need to look. There’s a layout, a flat plan, to apartments like this, and he catches the telltale signs of commercialism in the smooth marble countertops of the kitchen, the doorways leading to huge, plush rooms. It’s nice, lavish and furnished to the nines, kept clean, with an underlying smell of perfume. It’s not very lived in, and that’s going to be the most helpful aspect of the night.

 Link raises his eyebrows in question, closing the door behind him, locking it with a flick of his wrist.

“It’ll be in the bottom drawer of a jewelry box or a safe. Check the master bathroom,” he tells Link, pointing to the open doorway leading to the living room.

A safe is usually left either in a closet or a bedroom. He’ll check the coat closet, the pantry, and the linen closet first. Link had said they didn’t have a lot of time, and he’ll make sure they aren’t here for long. He’s done this more times than he’s been able to keep track of, only usually he’s not sneaking in. Usually, he’s slipping the coat or jacket off of his date, talking in low tones and letting his hands linger too long. He’ll take small sips of wine throughout the night, let them get sleepy and relaxed, help them into bed.

That’s not to say he’s never broken into a home before, because he certainly has. For bigger objects: paintings, cars, antiques—he’s done a lot of breaking into apartments and houses and businesses. But more often than not, he’s being led inside.

There’s a calm about jobs like this, quiet and calculated and less about being quick and savage. There’s more thinking involved, less brute force. He likes jobs like this. They always leave him feeling a bit high.

Apartments are easy, especially ones like this, so surveying the kitchen, he’s able to quickly formulate a plan of action. It’s easy to slip through the rooms; and connected to the kitchen, there’s a washroom with a closet. He pushes around some jackets, a few pairs of shoes, but he comes up empty-handed.

The hall closet is a bust, too.

There are pictures on the walls, but he doesn’t pay attention to them as he makes his way to the bedroom. He’s sure Link looked at them, got a face to the person they’re hurting. Rhett would rather not know. Instead, he finds Link leaning over a bedside table, papers in his hands. He’s flipping through them, grinning. “What’s that?” Rhett asks, pushing the door open with the toe of his shoe, keeping his fingers off as much as possible.

“A contract. I don’t know what for, but it caught my eye.” He puts them back on the nightstand with a shrug. “I didn’t find a jewelry box anywhere.”

Nodding, Rhett gets on his knees. Raising the bed skirt, he pushes at a few pairs of shoes stuffed under the bed haphazardly, and laughs happily when he sees a personal safe. It’s only got a key lock on it, no code, and he wants to laugh at how easy this is going to be. This was a good choice after all. It takes a hard tug to get the safe from out, but once he does, he puts it on the bed carefully. “Well, look at that,” Link says, sounding impressed. “Like a kid in a candy shop.”

“This is cake, man,” Rhett says, his lock pick already in his fingers. These locks are always a little tricky, but it still doesn’t take him more than a few moments, Link staying deathly quiet next to him. Once he hears the click, he pops the top of the safe open.

Right there, sitting on top of a revolver, is the necklace. He hears Link let out a happy sound, a sharp laugh, and then he’s reaching out to run his fingers over the pearls. “Two-for-one,” he says, picking up the necklace carefully. “Come here.”

Furrowing his brow, Rhett steps a little bit closer, crouching just a tad, shaking his head when Link unclasps the necklace. It’s weightier than he would have thought, and Link’s hands are shaky when he spins it around, adjusting it so it sits the right way around Rhett’s neck. And then, breaking the calm, he grabs the gun out of the safe and stuffs it into the back of his pants, tugging his shirt over it and turning, asking, “Is it noticeable?”

Rhett shakes his head, says, “Not unless you know what you’re looking for.”

Link winks at him. The necklace smacks against his chest as he bends to put the safe back, moving the shoes so they’re back in place, too. They make sure not to leave any trace that they were here. Rhett’s an expert at it by now, and he relishes the chance to show off just a bit. Half of him expected Link to get too fidgety, to be unable to leave without anyone knowing he was here, but he’s the one that ushers Rhett back through the apartment once he stands back up.

A look at his phone tells him they’ve been in here for ten minutes. He promised quick, and he’d followed through with that promise. His chest feels full, his stomach flipping over as laughter and giddy excitement threaten to bubble up as he’s pulling up the collar of his shirt, walking through the front door at Link’s insistence.

He practically floats down the hall, unable to keep the smile off his face. The necklace is still cool on his skin, solid and obnoxious. It’s not very pretty, very over-the-top. But it’s got diamonds and pearls covering it, red rubies adding a splash of beautiful color. There’s a huge pearl dangling on the end, and he knows that’s where the value is. When he touches it through his shirt, raises his eyebrows at Link, he gets a nod in response. He takes it to mean he’ll get an answer as soon as they make it back to the car.

Rhett doesn’t know a lot about jewelry. It was never his thing. Paintings and cars and antiques, he’s pretty knowledgeable about. He can deduce the worth and age of most things after just looking at them, can rattle off little facts about most sculptures. But jewelry has never appealed to him. He doesn’t wear it, doesn’t really have a desire to do any research. So when he does a job centered on jewelry, he has very little urge to keep it for himself. Jewelry is the easiest item to sell, usually the easiest to mark up, and the easiest to steal, meaning it’s what everyone is trying to get their hands on.

When they get in the car and Link nonchalantly says, “You’ve got eleven million dollars on your chest. How does it feel?” Rhett chokes just a little bit.

“Say that again.”

Link tosses his head back in a laugh, reaches over to help Rhett get it off, and he’s suddenly very nervous about letting those indelicate, violent hands hold onto it. Gently touching the huge, teardrop pearl at the bottom, Link says, “It was part of the Elizabeth Taylor auction. The whole set went for something like one hundred fifteen million. This piece alone went for eleven million. It’s the _La Peregrina_.”

“And it was just sitting in a safe in the middle of Burbank?” Rhett asks. The apartment was nice, but not _‘There’s an eleven million dollar necklace in here’_ nice. He focuses on the road, avoiding watching Link place the necklace in a soft, satin bag he’d brought along. His heart pounds in his chest, and he feels that same excitement from in the apartment rise. This was huge, much bigger than he’d thought. And the thrill of it—god, he hasn’t felt this in a long time.

Link chuckles a little, smoothes the bag out on his lap carefully. “It wasn’t there for long. I’ve been watching this thing hop from owner-to-owner for a few months. Now I’ve got my grubby hands on it.”

“This is crazy, man,” Rhett says with a hoot of laughter. He pats the steering wheel a few times, smile plastered across his face.

“Feel good?” Link asks, and Rhett looks at him, sees his lick his lips, grinning.

Rhett just nods his head, laughs a little louder, and presses his foot on the pedal a little harder, watching the speedometer move. He speeds, going foolishly fast and taking the back way to Link’s house, dragging out the feeling for as long as he can.

He feels back to normal. Something inside him has cracked open, left him feeling like this used to make him feel, farther back than even he originally thought. He’s been wrong, apparently. For obvious reasons, he thought meeting Link was when he stopped feeling good about this job; however, this high is so foreign to him now, he doesn’t _remember_ the last time he felt it. He knows he used to. It’s the reason he kept doing it, until it became routine, until it just became a habit.

And now—fuck, now he’s itchy for more. He feels like he can do anything. There’s a fight somewhere with his name on it. But for now, he pulls into Link’s driveway, watching the fancy gate close behind them. He lingers outside, taking huge, gulping breaths of fresh air until his head spins.

Link leaves him in favor of depositing the necklace somewhere safe. Rhett doesn’t bother trying to know where he puts it. He’ll find it later if he wants it.

By the time he’s finally walking inside, Link is in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water, and Rhett doesn’t think before he slides his hand through Link’s hair, tugs his head back, and kisses him. There’s heat and a sharp twitch of pain when Link bites his lip, a warning that Rhett doesn’t listen to.

He knows what it says, though. It says, ‘If we do this, it’s not going to end here.’

So he kisses him harder, all lips and teeth and tongue, letting Link dig his fingers into his bicep, laughing when he lets out a loud moan. It’s Rhett’s turn tonight. He tugs at Link, manhandles him how he wants him, angles him so that it’s easy to get his other hand on his neck, tilt him up even further. When he licks past the seam of Link’s lips, Link breathes out shakily, trailing off into a groan that spurs Rhett on even more.

It’s easy to walk them backwards, pick Link up and get him on the edge of the countertop, spread his knees enough to slot himself between. He pulls away, and Link says, “Where were you hiding _this_ from me, big guy?”

Rhett kisses the smug look right off Link’s face. There’s a laugh under the surface, but he swallows it down right along with the high, shocked sound Link lets out when Rhett’s hands slide up his thighs. His thumbs rub at Link through the denim, slow and teasing, stopping entirely when Link tilts his hips up greedily.

It’s easy to get his hands on Link’s hips, to hold him down firmly, his fingers digging into the bone hard enough to bruise, hard enough to pull a hiss from Link. When he sucks Link’s bottom lip into his mouth, worries his teeth over it, he gets a breathy laugh, hands on his shoulders pushing at him. “Gosh, Rhett,” Link says. “Planning on doing something or do you just wanna mark me up?”

“Both,” Rhett tells him, smirking.

“By all means,” Link laughs, “continue.”

He sort of leans back, an example of giving in, presenting himself, and it makes Rhett flash back to a similar reaction to Rhett’s hands on him. Both times asking for it, egging Rhett on. This time, he gives in, and his mouth is on him in seconds. Link gives back, doesn’t let Rhett take control as much this time, and he’s pleasantly surprised when two cold hands land on his face, cupping his cheeks so Link can press in a little harder, can lick at the top of his palette.

Link scoots closer to the edge, wraps his legs around Rhett’s waist and successfully manages to pull him in even closer. It’s good, being like this, still feeling that energy buzzing under his skin, and having Link so close, right there. It’s even better when one of Link’s hands slides down his chest, lingers for a second before going further, slipping over the front of his jeans. Rhett angles his hips forward, none-too-shy about what he wants. In return, he gets Link smiling into the kiss, his fingers closing around his cock through his jeans as best they can.

The angle is a bit awkward, and it takes a big of hip work on Rhett’s part and wrist work on Link’s for them to make it work, but Link undoes Rhett’s jeans carefully, slipping his hand inside. He isn’t fully hard—almost, but not quite—not just from this, but Link hums in the back of his throat, mouth going soft and sweet on Rhett’s. When he gets his hand on Rhett, wraps his fist around the base of his cock, it pulls a guttural sound from him, has him jerking his hips up into the feeling.

“Like that?” Link asks, low and breathy, and Rhett knows if he looks at him, he’ll be smirking. So he doesn’t look, focuses instead on the feeling of Link’s hand on him, on the pressure and the way his whole body thrums at the contact. “ _Yeah_ , like that.”

It’s nonsense, and Rhett knows it, just Link’s need to constantly be talking, to be doing something, but it heats him up, rushes through him in a shock, especially when he pulls his hand out of Rhett’s pants, licks the center of his palm, and slides it right back inside.

“Fuck,” Rhett grunts, hands flying up to grab at Link’s face, pull him close again. This time, when he slots their mouths together, he tastes the satisfaction coursing through Link. When he pulls away, he says, “God, that’s good.”

“I know, baby,” Link mumbles.

Rhett can’t help the way his hips cant up, how he chases the down stroke on the upstroke. Link’s fingers are thin and soft and careful in the way they wrap around Rhett’s cock, jerk him off slow and easy. It’s not until Rhett’s cupping Link through his jeans, hand big and a bit clumsy, that Link’s tugging him out of his underwear and pants altogether and pushing them down to mid-thigh, cock out in the open and easier for Link to get his thumb passing right under the head. A shiver wracks through Rhett, a twist in his gut at the feeling.

“Gosh, Link,” he groans, thick and heavy. Vaguely, he hears a chuckle, but he ignores it, hips working up desperately against the feeling of Link’s hand.

It only takes him a moment, a little bit of fumbling, and he gets Link’s pants open, too. He gets his hand inside, Link leaning back and lifting his butt up just a bit so Rhett can tug them down, his underwear coming with them. When his bare ass hits the counter, he whoops loudly, laughing, and says, “Oh, that’s cold!”

His dick twitches in Rhett’s hand, and he puts a little more pressure on him, watching Link’s eyes roll back just a bit with a thick, heavy satisfaction. It only lasts a second, hanging between them when Link mimics him, eyebrows raised in a challenge.  He takes a page out of Link’s book, pulls his hand away only long enough to get his palm wet. Except he holds it up for Link to lick, says, “You do it,” when Link bites his lip and shakes his head in disbelief.

He complies, but puts on a show, free hand wrapping around Rhett’s wrist, wet, hot tongue starting at the heel of Rhett’s palm, worming its way up to the very tip of Rhett’s middle finger. It should be gross, the slimy, cold feeling of Link’s spit on his hand, but it just spurs him on more, has him getting his hand back on Link’s cock, relishing in the sharp intake of breath, the low half-word he mumbles at the contact.

“Dirty boy,” Link teases.

Rhett’s teetering on the edge, stomach going tighter with every twist of Link’s wrist, every slight squeeze when he gets to the base. The more Link talks, the deeper he falls into this, into the heat curling at the base of his spine, the tension in his shoulders and hips.

All he can do is open his mouth, let out a whine and follow it with, “Feels so good.”

“As good as taking that necklace did?” Link asks, rocks his hips up into Rhett’s fist.

Rhett smiles, tosses his head back with a moan and fucks up into the slick feeling of Link’s hand on him. “Oh, god,” he groans. “God, god, god.”

He can hear Link laugh, can feel his fingers working him over, the slick sounds filling his head obscenely. There’s a shock of tongue and teeth on his neck, the scrape of Link’s stubble, and a breathy gasp of, “Yeah, baby. Come on.”

It comes to a pinpoint, starting from his toes and wracking through him in waves. When he comes, it’s with a sharp cry, a gasp and mashing his hips into Link’s hand, his own fist finding its way to Link’s shirt. Link’s still talking through it, whispering words that Rhett doesn’t catch, can’t place as anything other than syllables with the way his ears are ringing. He feels himself stutter, his hips jerking forward with every move.

For a moment, he forgets about his own hand on Link’s cock, too focused on his own orgasm still rushing through him. But he leans forward to lay his head on Link’s shoulder, catches Link’s hips still jerking up, coming to a halt as he arches back, mouth falling open around a moan laced with laughter as he comes, too. Rhett stays still, watching his hips, his cock, the jizz drying on his hand.

They’re both pretty messy. There’s come on their shirts, their hands. A little bit landed on the counter.

He figures, all-in-all, it was a good way to end a job. That intoxicating buzz is still in his veins, but dulled for now. Instead of a fight, he wants a sandwich and a shower. Link sort of slumps against him, and Rhett lets his eyes fall shut for a second.

He feels teeth after a beat, biting down just so into his shoulder. It aches, but he wrenches away from it with a laugh.

“We have to kill Frank,” he says.

It just sort of tumbles out of him, landing between them and making the air feel sticky. Everything goes stagnant for a second, until Link shivers, full-bodied and visceral. He lets out a strangled sound, pulls Rhett in for another kiss.

When he pulls apart, he says, “You can’t say shit like that to me after you make me come my brains out, man. My dick can’t get hard again that quickly.”

Rhett wants to laugh. Instead, he adjusts himself, zips himself back up. He takes a deep breath.

They have to kill Frank.


	6. My Boy Builds Coffins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me over at [tumblr](http://cockymclaughlin.tumblr.com/) if you're into that sort of thing.

He hasn’t felt this alive in a long time.

The feeling follows him, weeks passing by where he’s tingling all over, doing job after job with Link at his side.

They rack up a pretty penny, leave front doors open out of pride, out of spite, out of a rush to get out of there, get back home and tear at each other’s clothes. It’s a warpath, and they’re on the winning side with, surprisingly, no casualties. Link tucks their prizes away, deposits money into Rhett’s bank account with that godforsaken smile on his face before tugging his jeans down his thighs, pushing him back onto the couch, and leaving hot, wet kisses along his hips with that stupid mouth of his.

Together, they’ve fallen down a rabbit hole. They’re sinking further and further underwater, tangled in each other in a mash of teeth and heap of legs. Rhett doesn’t think he ever wants to surface, not when Link’s fingers feel so good pressed into his hips, when his mouth feels so good wrapped around his cock. He’ll stay down, stay trapped under the surface as long as Link is there, reveling in this feeling with him.

The jobs are easy enough, only getting dangerous a couple of times, when they push their luck and walk out with stuff they didn’t have on their radar. Link will find necklaces or earrings or cufflinks. Rhett will see a painting, a sculpture, and, on one rare occasion, an antique chair. They dig and search, stretching their time, until a car door is catching them by surprise, a desperate and frantic jingling of keys in the front door while they carefully let themselves out of the back.

Link doesn’t tell Rhett if he brings a weapon. He doesn’t ever flash one, doesn’t ever wear a holster. It helps Rhett keep his head on straight, makes it easier to forget about that part of this. The jobs stay light, they stay careful and fun and comfortable. He feels like he’s taking his life back for his own. It’s probably not true, not with how one minute he’s plucking a first edition Edgar Allen Poe off a shelf, and the next he’s in Link’s living room, tangling his fingers in the soft hair at the base of Link’s neck. It’s easy to give in, to sink into that couch and let Link wrap his mouth around him. It’s easy to forget anything else.

Things in his personal life are neglected and he knows it. His phone doesn’t stop going off, messages from his mom, from Stevie; but he ignores all of them. There’s no time for any of that right now. They’ve found a rhythm, and if they screw it up, he’s back to square one. He’ll call them back later. He’s just got to work with Link until the jobs are done, and then he’s back to normal. It’s what they agreed to. Everything is fine.

He wakes up one night, the sheets below his legs too soft to be his own despite his subconscious still lingering in his own home. Next to him, Link is already awake, staring at him with his head still buried in his pillow. He doesn’t say anything, just slides one hand up Rhett’s side, until he’s tracing over his stomach, over his chest, fingers soft and light and delicate.

But the nightmare was a contrast to that behavior. The Link in his dreams was sinking his fingers in too far, ripping through flesh and muscle, grabbing handfuls of Rhett’s guts and yanking them out. There was a thick, syrupy slide of blood down Rhett’s body, tickling the whole way down, soaking into the sheets. Link was perched on top, sitting on Rhett’s thighs while he swirled the tip of a finger in the goopy mess of organs and bone. And he was talking, casual and calm the whole way through. It wasn’t real words, just a muffled mess of consonants and vowels.

Rhett, ripped open from sternum to pelvis, was just listening. He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t trying to fight him off.

Then, he’d been startled awake when Link brought a handful off the mess up to his mouth.

When he shifts in Link’s grip, he hears a mumble of, “You okay?”

Afraid his voice won’t work if he uses it, he nods his head, forces himself to stop squirming.

“Keep moving like that,” Link teases, and there’s a press of a smile to Rhett’s shoulder. There’s an accent, thick and slurred, that makes Rhett’s stomach twist. He doesn’t give in, but turns so he can press their mouths together for a stale kiss. Link still tastes like mouthwash, under the beginnings of morning breath. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Weird dream,” Rhett croaks out, inwardly cringing at how rough his voice sounds. He grabs Link’s hands and puts them back on his body, right on his soft parts, using his own hands to push Link’s fingers in too hard.

There’s a sound in the back of Link’s throat that Rhett interprets as understanding, and a smile on his face that Rhett interprets as excitement. When the realization just makes him warm all over, Rhett thinks this is the first time he’s been okay with the reminder that this is who Link is. He’s not sure what it says about him, but he takes it in stride, leaning in to steal a soft kiss from him.

He doesn’t think about his dream again, pushing it to the back of his subconscious. And when he falls back asleep, it’s graciously a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, Link doesn’t bring it up, and Rhett doesn’t tell him about it. Instead, they drink coffee and eat fruit salad at the island while they go over floor plans of a plastic surgeon’s house.

“I’m gonna bring a gun to this one,” Link says. He eyes Rhett carefully, waiting for an answer, for an argument.

He doesn’t have any fight in him. Rhett nods his head. “Okay.”

The floor plans land on the floor when Link pulls Rhett to him. They forget about them for a while, and their coffee turns too cold for them to drink it again. But Rhett is far more content licking the taste of watermelon out of Link’s mouth, anyway.

He thinks he’s curious. This far in, Link knuckle-deep into his psyche, he wants to know what else is underneath the veil. He wants to know what else is going to happen. At the very least, it’s silly. If he puts real weight to it, it’s downright stupid. But he wants to know how far Link can be pushed. Link isn’t the only one that likes this game of chicken they’re playing.

The other night, Link had told him he could break Rhett. There was a promise hidden under the pretense of a threat, and Rhett keeps waiting for it to happen, keeps waiting for Link to live up to his reputation. This dangerous energy makes him want to know what’s going to happen. The adrenaline under his skin doesn’t let him shake the curiosity, replacing the thick layer of fear that was there before. Where the words once burned and stung, they’re now buzzing like a livewire, gnawing at him.

Maybe he needs to be broken.

Maybe Link’s way of breaking him is to make him bang his head on the cold tile floor of his dining room, his legs squeezing around Link’s head while he hums around Rhett’s dick. He’s not going to ask, not when Link pats him on the stomach and zips him back up, smacking away his hand when he goes to undo the buttons on his jeans with a, “Later, big guy.” 

They spread the floor plans on the dining room table and go over a few notes. They’re planning on showing up tonight. The house should be empty. Link shows him pictures of a diptych, a room with huge ceilings, and a bottle of wine. He never says what they’re looking for, just traces a path for them and marks the doorways and possible locks. There’s a set of stairs they have to go down, leading them into a basement far too pretentious to let itself be called a basement. The pictures get marked in red and black, and scribbled with notes, and Rhett still never knows what it is they’re in search of tonight.

Link fixes coffee, pulls a bag of cherries from the fridge.

Rhett calls his mom. They talk for a while, and Link sits across from him at the table, smirking softly while he scrolls through his phone and spits cherry seeds onto a paper towel. Rhett knows he’s listening to his conversation, but he doesn’t let it deter him. It’s not like they’re talking about groundbreaking stuff. He just listens while she mentions names of people he’d forgotten even exist, lives he no longer has any investments in. She promises to send him some baked goods, mentions wanting to take a trip up to see him, and asks him about his web-design business.

Link laughs when he says it’s going great. Rhett cuts him a pair of eyes, and gets a louder laugh in return.

“Are you busy, Rhett? I can call you back later,” his mom says when she hears Link.

“No, Ma, I’m not busy. I’ve just got the TV on real loud,” he lies.

When he hangs up with her, Link eyes him carefully. There’s a question dangling in their air, and Rhett decides to answer it without Link having to ask. He says, “I’m not telling her about you.”

“Why not?” Link asks. It’s a game, and Rhett doesn’t take the bait.

He tells him, “I’m not telling anyone about you.”

“Liar,” Link says, his smile growing. “You’ve already told someone about me. Secrets don’t make friends, Rhett.”

There’s an annoyed sigh building in his chest before it cracks open and he narrows his eyes in confusion. “How’d you know that?”

Link cocks his head to the side. “Have you forgotten who you’re working with? Was the blowjob really that good?”

Something settles high in Rhett’s stomach, burning on the way up when he asks, “Link, how do you know?”

“I told you I was looking for you,” Link says. He’s got an eyebrow raised in challenge, the beginnings of a smile on his lips.

Rhett closes his eyes, exhales heavily.

He lets things fall silent between the two of them, and he shouldn’t be shocked when Link chuckles, says, “Are you _ashamed_ of me, baby?” low and teasing and settling uncomfortably in the center of the table. When Rhett rolls his eyes, Link cackles wildly, pushing back in his chair to stand up. “I’ll meet you in the car.”

Link disappears upstairs, and Rhett steals the keys off the hook on his way out the door.

He starts the car, adjusts the seat and mirrors, checks that his phone is on silent, and as he’s waiting for Link, it hits him how routine this has become. They’ve gone on five jobs in the past three weeks. All of them were small, quick and easy and painless, and Rhett has been on such a high that he hasn’t realized how doing this with Link suddenly feels _normal_.

There’s a statistic that says it only takes twenty one days to form a habit. Rhett believes it, but he wonders if all those statisticians took into account the tingling that starts in Rhett’s scalp when he’s on a job. Did they add into their science the taste of blood in his mouth when Link sinks his teeth into his bottom lip too hard? Did their math include the rush of adrenaline of getting caught, eyes catching sight of the shocked look on the homeowner’s face as he’s rushing out of the back door?

He doesn’t think it did. If it had, they would have realized it only takes one time—one heated, breathless time—to truly form a habit.

Years ago, when he was offered this life, when his bank account suddenly had more zeros on it than he’d ever seen in his life, he’d thought he really had hit the pinnacle of living. But when Link slides into the passenger seat, grin on his face, and they take off down the road, into the direction of Beverly Hills, he realizes he was wrong.

This right here, the look on Link’s face, the sprawling mansions blurring past them, the excitement swirling in his guts—this is what being alive is about. Life is whatever you make it out to be. It does what you dictate, and you can wrap your hands around its throat and squeeze until it bleeds, or you can put it in a corner and never touch it.

Right now, Rhett is wrist deep, digging and searching for the heart, trying to tap into the main vein. He’s almost got it.

The house they pull up to is one Rhett’s going to remember for the rest of his life. It’s a magazine house, one of those ones that get its own special on MTV. The columns in the front are marble, works of art, and the yard is kept impossibly clean. Everything is brilliant, bright, and crisp and the code at the gate is the name of the street. Rhett was handed this place on a silver platter, given the keys and told to make himself at home. Whatever he touches gives under very little pressure, easy and soft and melted around the edges.

Once they’re inside, listening to the clean hum of new, pricy appliances, Link puts his hand on Rhett’s back to get his attention and brings a finger up to his lips. It takes a second, but Rhett hears it, too, and his heart leaps into his throat.

Muffled somewhere in the house, there’s a voice.

It’s a man’s voice, deep and gravely, garbled from an obvious lifetime of smoking. He laughs, carries on a conversation, and Rhett watches Link’s hand slink around to his hip, underneath his shirt. The way his fingers wrap around the handle of the gun sends a shiver down Rhett’s spine, how they look so at home. With a twist in his stomach, he realizes they aren’t shaking for the first time since the night that gun was pointed at Rhett while he dug through Link’s drawers.

With a stern look Rhett’s way, Link jerks his head in the direction of the room they pinpointed as the room they’d need to get to in order to find whatever it is Link decided he wanted. Rhett nods, swallowing down the lump in his throat, and takes long, fast strides to the door leading to the kitchen.

As he’s turning the corner, he hears Link say, “Uh, yeah man. I—I’m looking for Sarah?”

There’s a muffled response, and then a shout that’s too deep to be coming from Link. In time with the turning of the doorknob, something hits the floor with a solid thump. He leaves his pick in the door as a breadcrumb trail, just in case. And once he’s flipping on the lights, taking in the expanse of the wine cellar he’s found himself in, he realizes what Link’s looking for with a disbelieving laugh.

“Jeez,” Rhett says quietly, running his fingers along labels and smooth necks of wine. There are two barrels in the center of the room, only there for display, a distinctly musty smell permeating the air. In the corner, there’s a display case with three bottles of wine in it, a table and chairs on the other side of the room. The room is rectangular, and Rhett wonders if there’s a basement connected to it, or if it’s just this.

There’s no sound coming into the room, even with the door open, and part of him is worried about what that implies. The other part of him doesn’t care enough to think about it. Instead, he focuses on reading labels, seeing names and brands he’s only ever seen pictures of online, read about in articles. Whoever this surgeon is has procured himself a pricey collection, lined the walls of his home with pomp and circumstance.

Something about the pretentiousness of it all makes him frown. He thinks, on a deeper level, it’s jealousy settling in the pit of his stomach.

He pulls a green bottle from the wall, runs his thumb first over the wood of the rack, and then over the gold label on the bottle. The whole room is wood, appealing and intricate, and he thinks he could probably live right here, in this room, for the rest of his life and be perfectly content.

Perhaps it’s not too late to cut a deal with the guy.

His senses on alert, he spins around at the sound of the door creaking open.

Link’s got sweat pooling at his temples, a smile plastered across his face. He exhales with a laugh while he cards a hand through his hair to straighten it out a bit. His clothes are rumpled, and he’s breathing heavily. Standing a few feet away from Rhett, he says, “You’ll never believe the quality of rope Dr. Gentile had in his room.”

Rhett snorts indelicately. “There’s nothing like a little shibari to ease the stress of cutting people open.”

“Never worked for me,” Link says with a wink, slapping Rhett on the chest with the back of his hand.

Rhett doesn’t think about it.

Instead, he watches Link flit across the room, watching how he bounces on his toes, drums his fingers on the wood. With a start, he realizes this job is Link’s territory. This is what he does. Here, with the fear of being caught, having tied up someone of unknown levels of aliveness—he’s having the same kind of fun Rhett’s been having.

He supposes if Link had his way, now would be the time when Rhett would ask the same question he’s been asking Rhett from the very beginning:

_‘Does it feel good?’_

But he doesn’t ask the question. He doesn’t have to. The smile on Link’s face, bright and open with that touch of danger, that power trip lighting him up, tells Rhett everything he needs to know. Link spins around with a bottle in his hands, biting his bottom lip so as not to let his smile crack his face wide open. When Rhett raises his eyebrows, laughter bubbles out of Link and he tries to shake his head to stop it.

“Gosh, Rhett,” he says through his laughter. “We make a good team.”

Rhett smirks at him, nods his head. “We do.”

He holds the bottle up a little higher. “Shall we?”

“I think celebrating now would be stupid, man,” Rhett says with a shake of his head. Link shrugs his shoulders, puts the bottle back on the shelf. “What are we here for? We should probably hurry this up.”

“He’s knocked out; we’ll be fine,” Link says, turning his attention back to the wine bottles. He slides one out just far enough to read the label, pushes it back in and stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets before jerking them back out to do the same thing again. It’s the most Rhett’s seen him touch during a job.

Usually, he keeps his hands to himself, touches only what he absolutely has to in order to avoid fingerprints coming back to haunt him. It’s the smart way to do it. But today Link runs his fingers along glass bottoms of wine bottles and the slick wood of the cellar. He walks through the whole thing, leaving behind smudged evidence of himself everywhere he goes.

And when he gets to the display case, a glassed-in portion of the wall, he presses his entire hand to it, palm flat against the glass, and he lets out a pleased hum. He flexes his fingers before he’s tugging the door of it open, the latch clicking softly as it gives.

The bottles inside look mostly like all the others, but Rhett would be willing to bet every dime he’s got that they’re rare and more expensive than the others. Link grabs one of them, holds it carefully before handing it over to Rhett. He reads the label, eyes going wide.

“Chateau d’Yquem 1811,” Link says. “The white wine that holds the title for the most expensive white wine ever sold.” He picks up a card that’s on a stand in the case. Rhett watches his eyes scan over the words, reaches over to put the bottle back in the case so he can wipe the sweat from his palms. “’To Michael, for making me stay young and beautiful forever’,” Link reads with a smirk.

“I hope their face ended up looking like it was worth this,” Rhett mumbles.

Link pats him on the back, tells him to grab the bottle and meet him upstairs, and hurries out of the cellar.

Rhett doesn’t exactly dawdle, but he doesn’t rush out. It’s a beautiful room, and there isn’t anything exciting for him upstairs. This is Link’s playground, not his.

But when he does eventually venture out to find Link, he’s bent over, poking at a knot on the forehead of a muscular, tan man who’s tied to an ornate dining room chair. The man’s eyelids are fluttering, so Rhett knows he’s going to be conscious again soon, and that they should leave while they’re ahead. Link doesn’t look like he’s going to be making that happen any time soon, though.

When the guy makes small sounds in his throat, confused and hurt, his eyes opening carefully, Link stands up straight, puts his hands on his hips. He turns to Rhett, says, “Rhett, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine: Raul.”

Raul lifts his head from where it’s laying back, brow furrowed and movements slow and jerky. The fuzzy look in his eyes says he’s trying to push through the haze, through the drumming in his ears. Rhett’s been knocked out a handful of times, knows that it feels like needles piercing through the point of contact, an echoing in your brain from the concussion. There’s tape over his mouth, and Rhett watches it crinkle with Raul’s effort to talk.

“Raul is Dr. Gentile’s—um—business partner,” Link says, hand reaching out to grab at Raul’s hair, holding his head steady.

He tries talking, gruff, muffled sounds coming out from behind the tape. There’s blood coming from his nose, mostly dried. His left eye is swollen, a cut underneath it, no doubt from Link’s knuckles or the blunt handle of the gun.  

He’s built like a truck: huge, broad shoulders and arms thick and solid. Link looks like a child next to him. And when he rips the tape off Raul’s mouth, the first thing out of Raul’s mouth is a garbled, “I’m gonna fucking rip you in half.”

With a sharp laugh, Link’s hand flies out, fist colliding with his already broken nose. He hardly flinches, just sniffs hard when blood trickles down his top lip. There’s a rough sound, something akin to a growl, thick and loud, that falls out of Link before he’s rearing back and punching him again. The chair rocks back, teeters with the force of it, and Link catches it just in time.

From where he’s standing, Rhett can see the smirk on Raul’s face, despite the blood and the swelling, the knot on his head. Link opens his fist, tests the severity of his broken knuckles, closes it again. This time, when his fist collides with Raul’s face, Link gets a face full of bloody spit in return.

Link doesn’t skip a beat, wipes it off with his hand, smears the mess of it all over Raul’s poor, broken face. Rhett thinks he sees a flash of teeth, hears a loud, painful sounding click. But Link’s quick, reaches into his holster with his right hand to press the tip of the gun to Raul’s temple and gets his left around Raul’s thick neck. His fingers sink into Raul’s windpipe, constricting airflow, and a few raspy, wheezing breaths ring out before Link is leaning in close, teeth bared, and says, “I’d like to see you _fucking_ try.”

One of Link’s hands around his throat, tight and squeezing, and Raul still manages an attempt at wrenching out of Link’s grip, his shoulders tensing as he tests his binds. They’re tight enough that Rhett can make out the beginnings of bruises already, exposed skin red and blotchy.

Rhett watches as the man sucks in wheezing breaths.  His eyes flit between Link’s face and Rhett’s. He’s got blood dribbling out of the corner of his mouth that matches the blood on Link’s knuckles. He’s missing a couple of teeth, his nose swollen and crooked and his cheekbones are no better off. His eyes land on Rhett. “You bringing your piece of ass around to jobs now, Neal?” he croaks out, tries a panicked, frightened laugh that doesn’t quite make it out. “’S that why nobody’s seen you around? Too busy sticking your dick in—“

And Link cuts him off, squeezes his fingers even tighter. Through clenched teeth, “ _You don’t look at him_.”  When he presses the head of the gun in a little harder, Rhett can hear an unmistakable whimper. He spits out, “You look at _me_. You look at me,” low and violent. The air in the room goes cold, the breath sucked right out of Rhett.

Link gets a wide-eyed, jerky nod in response, a wheeze of, “Okay, okay.” Rhett can see Link’s smile from here. He lets go, stands up straight, tugs at his shirt to smooth out the wrinkles and gain composure. His hands are shaking, just a little bit, and Rhett’s willing to bet it’s from the adrenaline, from that feeling of elation they all get from living like this. That addicting feeling of power; and Link’s so good at it that Rhett can’t fault him for thriving for more, for the bounce in his step and the smirk on his face.

Link turns his back on Raul, moves to put the gun back in its holster. He catches Rhett’s eyes while he’s doing so, taking a deep breath. His free hand flies up to swipe at stray hairs falling in his face, running through one quick time as he takes a step forward.

Rhett sees everything happen in slow motion, his heartbeat loud and violent in his head. He sees Raul stick out the foot he’s managed to wriggle free, sees him wrap it around Link’s ankle stupidly. Link doesn’t quite land on his face, catching himself with his arm before he smacks his mouth on the wood, but Raul still somehow drags him closer to him, Link’s shins hitting the legs of the chair with a loud crack. Raul’s foot lifts up, no doubt with the intention of coming back down onto Link’s head, but Link is faster. Rhett watches those trained, professional hands fly back to his gun, finger finding the trigger like a reflex while his aim lines up perfectly. It’s just a few beats of a second, and Rhett’s flinching by the time Link’s face is twisting up into an angry scowl.

The sound is deafening, this close. Rhett watches Raul’s head snap back, the force of the bullet entering his skull leaving him wide-eyed and staring up at the ceiling. He’s almost impressed at the amount of blood that hits the wall behind him.

He thought, for some reason, that the first time he’d see a person die would leave him nauseous and shaky. Instead, he feels an echoing fuzziness thumping through his whole body. His bones feel hollowed out, watching Link wipe a hand over the blood on his face, the backsplash from being so close.

There’s a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach, but instead of the fear he’s always imagined would settle there, an unreal sense of confusion and disbelief fills him instead. Where he anticipated anger would make its home, that sickly feeling of witnessing a disaster fills him. It’s like watching a tornado rip through someone’s home, knowing that they’ve lost everything, but being detached from the actual pain of the situation. He’s watched this man die, is staring at the whites of his eyes as his body goes limp in the chair he’s tied to, but he doesn’t feel anything about it other than sympathy for whomever this is going to affect. This whole night has seemed like some sort of movie, like he’s been watching from the outskirts while Link—who’s larger than life, who very well could be a character out of a movie—does his job. It doesn’t exactly feel real to him.

In the ticking moments of the gunshot’s echo dying out, Link catches his breath, and stares at Rhett. His eyes burn holes in Rhett’s skull, but he can’t get himself to meet Link’s eyes. Raul’s body looks unnatural, now. He wonders if Link is picturing the same type of hole that he’s put in Raul in Rhett’s head instead.

Rhett’s seen bodies before, seen enough pictures to last a lifetime, and he’s also been up close and personal. This is different. This is visceral and _real_.

There’s a violent twitch that wracks through the lifeless body, and it startles Rhett enough to have him finally dragging his eyes away.

“Help me carry him to the cellar,” Link says.

“I have a bad back.” His voice doesn’t sound any different. He thought it would, somehow.

Something should have changed.

“Help me carry him to the cellar, Rhett,” Link tells him again, stern enough to say that it wasn’t a suggestion.

Rhett watches him stand, sees him wipe his hands off on Raul’s jeans, leaving bloody smudges on thick, muscular thighs. Link unties the knots in the rope, kicking it to the side once he gets it all unraveled. It takes another look from Link for Rhett to finally move closer with a nod.

Dead weight is never easy to carry, made even more difficult by the shock still weighing down Rhett’s limbs, making it hard to move. Raul’s body is huge, and Rhett gets his arms under his knees, grunting when they get him up and out of the chair.

Blood from the exit wound in the back of his skull marks their path, deep red drops and smears leading the way to the cellar. It drips down Link’s arms, stains his shirt and his pants. Like a train wreck, Rhett can’t look away.

Link unceremoniously flips over one of the decorative barrels, pries off the top. It’s empty inside, and Rhett doubts they’ll be able to fit Raul’s whole body in it, but Link makes it clear he wants them to try.

It’s harder to heave the body up and into the barrel than Rhett originally thought it might be. It takes them a couple of tries, Rhett’s knees threatening to give out underneath him. There’s sweat pooling at the small of his back, and on Link’s temples.

Raul’s body bends and twists, a couple of bones popping out of socket with loud, visceral cracks that Rhett knows he’ll hear echoing around his dreams for a while to come. The wood of the barrel threatens to snap, too, but it stays.

For added drama, Link pulls a couple of bottles of wine off the racks, bangs them on the edge of the barrel until the necks are snapping in half, and pours a cabernet sauvignon and a chardonnay into the mess. When he’s done, he turns to Rhett and says, “So, did I live up to expectations?”

The broken bottles get placed in the barrel too, and Rhett decides not to dignify Link’s question with an answer, choosing instead to walk out of the room entirely. It’s too crowded in there, the wood suddenly making him claustrophobic, where it was once warm and inviting. Just like that, there’s another place that’s been tainted for him, more blood coating everything in a thick layer.

He keeps walking, feeling the weight leaving his bones once he gets outside, gets his lungs full of fresh air. The taste of blood is still in his mouth, in his sinuses, but out here, he feels a little better. They’d forgotten their time limit in the midst of everything, and Rhett pulls out his phone only to see they’d been in there for nearly an hour. It felt like so much longer; it felt like a lifetime. He’s a whole new person, shed his skin unwillingly.

When Link walks out, shirt damp and heavy with blood, face specked with it like a macabre version of the night sky, he’s carrying the bottle they came here for, careful not to touch it to his shirt, holding it by the glass neck so the blood on his hands doesn’t damage the label. He passes Rhett, pats him on the back, and says, “I’ll drive home.”

This doesn’t feel like a fall from grace exactly, but he feels humbled somehow. Or maybe not that, either. Something just on the cusp of humbled and recidivated. He remembers his dream, remembers his wanting for Link to break him like he’d promised.

As it would turn out, he was wrong.

He didn’t want to be broken, he just felt like he couldn’t be. There was no way, leading up to this point, that Link could tear him down. Not with the way he was feeling. But Link’s already broken him, hasn’t he? Long before tonight, wearing and tearing on him with every job they did together in the past few weeks. And where hatred and anger should have taken form, he’s helped stuff a man’s body into a wine barrel. Where he should have fought back like he’d told himself he would, he helped.

Or, if Rhett wanted to take the blame, he’d admit that this has less to do with Link and more to do with himself, with how he’s let Link in. Link is his friend, at this point. He can’t remember the last time he went home for more than a couple of hours, hasn’t spent a night away from him. Link is the reason he’s found his footing again. Maybe admitting they need to kill Frank was when Rhett really broke, and that would mean he did it to himself. This is all his own doing. Link is just doing his job, the same thing he’s been doing from the very beginning.

That feeling of being on top right before they’d pulled up to this house is still there, nestled neatly in his chest, but there’s guilt wrapped around it now. He’s still on top— _they’re_ still on top—only now he’s a Lady MacBeth.

Through the blood rushing in his ears, he hears Link ask, “Are you alright?”

When he slides into the passenger seat, eyes trained on Link and how he uses the collar of his shirt to wipe at the sweat and blood on his face, Rhett licks his dry lips, swallows until the saliva wets his mouth enough to say, “I expected to feel angry when I first saw you do that. Or at least…I don’t know, disgusted, somehow. But I don’t, and that’s—“

The words get lost in the mess of thoughts he’s got swirling around in his brain, so he lets the sentence hang in favor of shaking his head and huffing out a laugh. He looks out the window to avoid looking at Link, feeling a bit like a petulant child for doing so, even if it is just to try to process what he’s feeling.

“That’s fair,” Link says. “Maybe once the shock wears off, you will be.”

Rhett turns his head to look at him. He looks the same, eyes calm and quiet, hands trembling just so. He’s a little bloody, but everything else about him is the exact same. When he catches a glimpse of himself in the side mirror, he looks the same, too. There’s a small smear of blood on his arm, probably from struggling to lift Raul’s body. Otherwise, he’s the identical physical version of the man who walked through that front door, unsure of what they were even doing here today.

Something should have changed. It’s fucking him up that nothing did.

He says, “I don’t think I will, though. I want to be, but I’m just not. Is there something wrong with me?”

“Well,” Link laughs. “I mean, yeah. There’s something a little wrong with all of us, man.”

“But I mean,” and they’ve had this conversation before, haven’t they? So, he backpedals a little bit, says, “I guess I shouldn’t have expected to react any different.”

Link lets the sentence hang in the air, and so does Rhett. He focuses on watching the scenery change outside, from sprawling mansions and lavish streets, beach-ready bodies tanned and half-naked to art and tourists, smaller houses, grass that’s a little less green.

When they pull into Link’s driveway and the car shuts off around him, he still hasn’t wrapped his mind around any of it any better.

Walking inside proves to be just as difficult as making those first steps towards the body was. Link pulls him upstairs after hiding the wine bottle, tugging at both of their clothes until they’re bare and each under a showerhead, warm water easing his muscles just a little bit. He’s got a bruise forming on his shin from something he doesn’t remember. Whenever he allows his eyes to rove over Link’s body, he catalogs similar wounds. Link’s are worse, even if the blood on his skin isn’t his own. Rhett watches it swirl down the drain.

Link does all the work for him, bare hands rubbing soap into Rhett’s skin, getting on his tiptoes to glide soapy fingers through Rhett’s hair. His nails scratch just a little bit, and Rhett’s resolve cracks under the warm water and gentle fingers. He wasn’t angry before, and he’s not quite angry now.

Stevie’s words ring around in his head while he grabs at Link’s biceps, spins him so he can press him against the shower wall.

_‘Nobody has ever forced you into any of the situations you’ve gotten yourself into.’_

He wants to blame Link, wants to call him a manipulator and call this something other than a business deal, but he _can’t_.

He can’t. And he won’t.

He kisses the smirk right off of Link’s mouth, harsh and wet and deep. Slick skin sliding against slick skin, he gets his hands on Link’s waist and pushes at him until he gets the idea, hops up a little and wraps his legs around Rhett’s hips. He’s heavy and solid, and Rhett needs that ache, the burn in his back, the trembling in his legs. Link doesn’t taste like anything at all, not blood or soap or anything in between. The moan he lets out is high and soft, and Rhett swallows it down.

They haven’t gone beyond handjobs and blowjobs, but Rhett’s got this feeling under his skin that he can’t put a name to, and he wants it to go away. Maybe Link can help him. So he pulls away and says, “I want you to fuck me.”

Pressed this close, he can feel the shiver that works its way through Link’s body, and the low hum he lets out in his chest. It’s easy to slot their mouths together again, lick past the seam of his lips. Link wriggles around in his arms until Rhett drops him back onto his feet.

For his effort, he gets a pat on the chest, and Link starts turning the water off. Rhett takes note of the watery blood still speckling the wall and the floor, and follows Link out of the shower. He’s handed a huge, warm towel, told to make sure he won’t drip all over the sheets. And then he’s asked, “When’s the last time you did this?”

“I’m clean,” Rhett promises, tossing him the damp towel.

“Good,” Link says with a smile. “So am I. But that’s not why I was asking.”

Rhett eyes him carefully, watches him pull a bottle of lube from a drawer on the side of his bed. Link gestures for him to get on the bed, and he does so tentatively, shuffling a little awkwardly on his knees until he’s in the center. He’s barely settled, knees bent, waiting for Link to slide in between, before Link’s tugging at him and manhandling him until he’s on his stomach. “Up,” he gets told, a hand tapping at his hips. He slides his knees up, get his arms under his head.

There’s barely enough time to get settled before Link’s thumbs are spreading him open, his mouth hot and wet at the base of Rhett’s spine. It’s not enough contact to justify the jerk that it inspires through Rhett’s whole body, but Link just breathes a laugh, touches him all the more gently. Mouth dangerously close, Link says again, “When’s the last time you did this?”

“This in particular?”

“The last time you were fucked,” Link clarifies. His fingers dig into Rhett’s ass a little harder. “Last time you fingered yourself. Last time you had anything inside of you.”

Rhett squeezes his eyes shut to think about it, breathes a little heavier when there’s the press of a dry finger to his hole. “It’s been a while. I don’t have it penciled in on my calendar, man.”

Link hums, and the first feeling of his tongue on Rhett’s skin sends a shock through him. When he pulls away, Rhett’s legs are trembling just a little bit. Those hands, the ones he saw grasped too tightly around a man’s throat not an hour ago, touch him delicately, trace the lines of his thighs and hold him open while he kisses each of Rhett’s cheeks. His teeth scrape just so, his tongue coming out to sooth the hurt.

When he does press in with a finger, it’s wet, sliding into him carefully. It’s been a while, but Rhett loves this. Link says, “I think you’re mad at yourself.”

He leans down and mouths at Rhett’s ass again. Before Rhett can respond, he tells him, “Which is stupid, man.”

There’s a second finger, just as wet as the first, and Rhett already feels slimy and gross. The stretch is nice, a welcome feeling, and he sinks a little further into the mattress. He should be offended by Link calling him stupid, but he can’t be right now. He promises to be later, when Link’s fingers aren’t curling and pressing and stretching him open.

Link continues, “What’s it gonna take to make you mad at me instead of yourself?”

“This is my fault,” Rhett rasps, hips jerking back when Link presses in just right.

“Is it?” Link asks. There’s a string of cool wetness suddenly, making Rhett hiss and jump, and Link slips out one of his fingers, using just one to work more lube into Rhett. Now, he definitely feels gross, inside and out. “I mean, I did threaten to kill you.”

Rhett chokes out a laugh, broken up into a moan at the very end when Link’s middle finger slides back inside him. He must look obscene like this, spread wide with lube dripping out of him.

He says, “You’re not gonna kill me, Link.”

“You’re sure?” Link asks, and Rhett swears he can hear the smirk. Or maybe he’s just imagining things. Maybe all the blood rushing down to his cock is making him hallucinate.

“I’m sure,” Rhett tells him, his voice slurring just a little bit.

Rhett thinks there’s more lube, but he’s stopped paying attention to anything but the feeling of Link’s fingers inside of him, a third one unnecessarily slipping in too. He’s so open like this, so wet, and he tells Link, “That’s a lot of lube.”

And he groans when Link’s fingers press against his prostate.

Link chuckles, “I like a lot of lube. Want you wet.”

“I’m wet,” Rhett promises. He wiggles his hips back against Link’s fingers, hearing the slick sounds and blushing, burying his head in his arms with a groan.

He hears, “Just a little more,” before there’s definitely more lube, all three fingers slipping out far enough to work the mess into Rhett’s ass. He’s sensitive now, stretched too wide around three of Link’s fingers, full and wet and Link keeps pressing over where it feels the best. When Rhett moans loudly, high-pitched and embarrassing, Link hums, “There we are.”

“We were there two fingers ago,” Rhett gasps out, rocking into the feeling.

Link’s free hand pinches him on the thigh, just hard enough to sting a little, and he hears him chuckle. He’s got lube on his balls, dripping down his cock, and he wants to reach down and jerk himself off, use that slickness to get off like this, with Link’s fingers buried in him, curled and pressing just right. It won’t take much; he can already feel the twist in his stomach, the sweet, tingling feeling starting in his thighs. His breathing speeds up when Link slips his fingers out, slides back in with two.

“Oh, _fuck_.” He’s really close. He fucking _loves_ being fingered. Instead of trying to say that, he just whines in the back of his throat, squeezes around Link’s fingers.

In return, he gets a groan and a, “Shit, baby.” And then, a little sweeter, “Gosh, look at you, Rhett.”

Link’s mouth presses against Rhett’s shoulder, kind and gentle before he sinks his teeth in just a little.

There’s so much lube, making things loud and filthy, and he muffles a sob into his wrist at the feeling of Link’s fingers finding his prostate again. “Ready, big guy?”

Rhett doesn’t get out more than a grunt in response, can’t manage real words when he feels like this, but he does manage a nod, slow and jerky. A pitiful whine falls out of him when Link slips his fingers out for good this time.

But when there’s the thick head of his cock instead, hand pulling at Rhett to maneuver him how he wants, Rhett’s mouth falls open in a moan, loud and heavy. He can’t help the way he rocks back into the feeling, chasing the sensation of being full. Link allows him to, stays still and says, “Come on, baby. Fuck yourself back onto me.”

And when Rhett does, a sob falling out of him, Link groans, tells him, “Just like that—there we go.”

His hands find Rhett’s hips, and his fingers dig in just a little. The last couple of inches, Rhett takes it slow, pulling off and rocking back down easily, wet and open around Link’s cock. He feels so good, says as much and bottoms out.

Link’s hips flush with his ass, his cock buried inside of him, Rhett says, “Fuck me.”

Already so close, so sensitive inside, that first drag of Link’s cock over his prostate has him groaning, smiling in the crook of his arm. He can make out harsh grunts from Link, a low growl when Rhett clenches down around him. The huge amount of lube makes everything slick, the sound of it heating Rhett up even more. He feels so good, full and warm and tingling all over.

It isn’t going to take much more, not with the way Link takes it slow, pressing in deep and grinding his hips against Rhett’s ass. When he pulls out all the way, slicks his cock through the mess between Rhett’s cheeks, and presses back inside, he says, “My filthy boy, Rhett. Fucking _look_ at you.”

Rhett bites his bottom lip, spreads himself a little wider. “Good gracious, Link.”

Both of Link’s hands find their way to his ass, thumbs pressing too close to his hole, teasing at the rim, and that’s all it takes. His orgasm starts in his spine, flames licking through him, twisting in his stomach, and he moans loudly, burying it into the mattress, mouth open and drooling as the aftershocks rock through him. Pitifully, he groans, “Oh, fuck.”

He hears Link groan, “Yeah, baby,” and he’s being pulled back to meet his thrusts, hard and deep, and everything makes him shiver and groan. Link comes with a loud sound, fingers bruising Rhett’s hips.

It’s too easy to let himself fall against the mattress, vaguely hearing Link’s indignant scold about getting his sheets all dirty. Rhett doesn’t care enough, chooses instead to push at Link until he’s pulling out gently, turns onto his side and tugs Link down onto the bed so he can tuck him in close to him, pressing his face into the top of Link’s head.

Suddenly, he’s exhausted, and he just wants to sleep. Link is warm and soft and pliant, humming quietly against Rhett’s chest. This is almost as good as sex to him. He forgets about the lube, the come dripping out of him. He doesn’t care about any of it, at this point.

His eyes fall shut, but as soon as he feels himself relax into the warmth, Link says, “You were right.”

“I usually am.”

Link thumps him on the chest with the back of his hand weakly. “I’m not gonna kill you.”

Rhett hums. He knows that.

After a second, Link says, “I just want to know you’re gonna be here when I wake up, man.”

“I’ll be here,” Rhett promises. “Go to sleep.”


	7. Interlude

Sigmund Freud’s map of human psyche simplifies an inconceivably vast concept by dividing it up into three mental functions, which he called the id, ego, and superego. Each one has to do with human behavior and why people react the ways that they do to things at certain stages of their lives.

(The only reason Rhett knows any of this is because he can’t sleep anymore and spends more time than he should reading Wikipedia entries while Link snores next to him.)

Freud attributed things like sex, death, and impulse to the id. The id holds primal instincts, and is the driving source for pleasure. It’s rash and demanding, with no structure or discipline, like the rampant desires and curiosity of a baby.

“The id gets what it wants,” Rhett says, twisting his fingers just so and listening to the hitched gasp Link lets out, watches his thighs shake, “and we experience pleasure.”

“Rhett,” Link breathes, a warning that’s well-hidden under the shaky inhale.

Rhett smiles, lets the conversation fall there, and slips his fingers out to slick his cock. He lines himself up, and slides inside with a hum. He’s better at this part than he is at psychology. Link agrees.

Freud’s concept covers huge portions of human behavior, accounting it to stages in life, the growth process of a human brain. And each of these functions sort of feeds off of one another, placating the brain and therefore stabilizing the psyche.

For instance, the ego, which is essentially the buffer between the id’s primal, unrealistic urges, and the real world, keeps dangerous things from happening. Where the id _wants_ and would take regardless of what stood in its way, the ego says to slow down, postpone that pleasure until it finds safe, manageable, realistic ways to achieve it.

“So really,” Link tells him, and he’s using the tips of his fingers to massage a blood stain out of a shirt, “your ego keeps you in check.”

“Right,” Rhett says. “It’s sort of like being the rider on back of a horse. The horse wants to go, go, go, but the rider pulls the reigns and makes a safer, better choice for them.”

Link looks up at him with a grin, fingers still working club soda into the stain. “I’m the horse,” Link says.

With a nod, Rhett tells him, “You’re the horse.”

If Rhett were asked, he would say the superego is the most important part of the human psyche. He’d also say it’s the one he and Link got a little screwed up as they progressed in life. Certainly, Link did somewhere along the way. He’s still on the fence about himself sometimes.

The superego deals with morality. It stores those values learned as a small child, taking influence from the outside world and interactions with other humans. Acting as sort of the final say, it takes those impulses from the id and the realistic solutions from the ego and convinces them both to take a moral stance as opposed to just one that will work. It combines both the conscience and that image of what a person ought to be and either punishes or rewards.

“So, like, if the id—you remember what that was, right?” Rhett asks, because they’ve been having this conversation on and off for a few days, never really managing to get through the whole thing. It works out, though, because he’s been reading up on the subject more and more. When he gets a nod, fingers coming up to feed him a slice of orange, he continues. “Good. So, if the id is overpowering enough that the ego gives in, the superego will ‘punish’ the psyche by making the person feel guilty.”

Link nods his head, makes a humming noise in the back of his throat. The couch is big enough that he doesn’t have to be curled into Rhett the way he is, but Rhett’s not complaining. They’ve been flipping through pictures of another job, a bigger job, and being this close helps things go by a little faster.

With a groan, Link leans forward to put the glossy pictures on the coffee table. “You mentioned something about reward; and I’m much more interested in that part of the conversation.” There’s a dangerous smile on his face, and he licks sticky juice from his fingers one by one while Rhett talks.

“It’s not that kind of reward, man,” Rhett laughs. “It just means that it’ll make us feel proud of ourselves when we behave the way we feel we should.”

Link hums again, reaches out to grab Rhett’s hand, and presses a sweet, citrusy kiss to the center of his palm. “What was the point of telling me all of this?”

Rhett watches Link lace their fingers together.

“You’re the horse, right?” With a grin, Link nods his head, shrugs his shoulders. The question he wants to ask is important, sitting heavy on his chest since he realized a few days ago that he wanted to have this series of conversations with Link. He takes a deep breath, and after a second, Rhett continues, “Does that make me the rider?”  

There’s a soft huff of laughter, and Link says, “We should go over those pictures some more.”  


	8. Tête-à-Tête

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me over at [tumblr](http://cockymclaughlin.tumblr.com/) if that's something you're into.

The air in his house smells stale. There’s bread on the counter that he has to throw in the trash because it’s got a layer of thick fuzz over the top. His laundry has gone sour, having sat in the wash for weeks. It doesn’t feel like a house anymore. It’s become more of a breaking point. It’s become an ellipsis in his routine. Lately, he’s bypassed it altogether, allowing all of his responsibilities not centered around Link and the jobs that are on their radar to fall to the wayside. He isn’t very proud of it, especially when he’s got to throw away a basket full of clothes and all of the contents of his refrigerator except for his pickles.  

Outside, the mailbox is full, the mailman having done his best to stuff it all in there, smashing all of the envelopes in the process. Rhett’s not upset about it. Most of it’s just junk, anyway.

His neighbors eye him carefully as he works at cleaning up the mess created by his absence, one of them going so far as to ask him where he’s been, giving him a careful eye when he says that he’s been visiting family. “It was an emergency,” he says with a shrug.

With a judgmental eye, the young girl—Sasha, he thinks her name is—says, “Well, someone was looking for you the other day. Some weird-looking guy. When I said I hadn’t seen you, they stuffed a letter in your mailbox.” She gives him a noncommittal wave of her hand when Rhett furrows his brow in question.

Sure enough, there’s a pitiful envelope towards the top of the pile—no stamp, no return address, no name. He decides to wait until he makes it back inside to open it, flipping through bills and advertisements and coupons while he walks back to his front door. As he’s walking inside, he slides his index finger under the lip, tearing it open. He’s got a twisting feeling in his gut telling him he knows what this is going to be. And he doesn’t exactly want a show when he discovers he’s right, so he glances around to check that nobody is peeking through his windows.

The letter inside is short, only a couple words long, and making him breathe out a laugh. It’s going for ominous, with such a seventies kidnapper’s vibe to it that Rhett doesn’t believe it isn’t a joke for a second.

But he reads over everything again, one more time to solidify it, before he folds the letter into a small enough square to fit in his back pocket with a laugh. And then he grabs the garbage bag, flips off the lights and goes to Link’s house.

The drive there gives him a chance to stew a little bit, let everything sink in, the absurdity. It’s just silly, at this point. He’s not sure if it’s cockiness or pride or enough knowledge about the situation to not feel threatened in the slightest. All he knows is that he’s not worried.  

He finds Link in the living room, flipping through the channels on the TV and eating a bowl of cereal. There’s a moment where Link opens his mouth to say something, but Rhett tosses the letter to him, and he snaps it shut. After a second, when Rhett plops himself down next to him, Link says, “What’s this?”

“Read it,” Rhett tells him. Link raises an eyebrow, pulls out the single piece of paper.

An insane-sounding laugh punches out of Link, and Rhett watches his eyes roam over the words three times. “This is a joke.”

“I don’t think so.”

Link takes a deep breath, puts the paper back in the envelope, and hands it back to Rhett. “You’d think they could come up with something more intimidating than just, ‘We’re coming.’ Drama queens.”

“This is Frank we’re talking about, man. I’m shocked he didn’t just leave me a message on my voicemail saying, ‘I will find you, and I will kill you.’”

“I mean, he knows who I am, right?” Link asks, and Rhett _almost_ laughs at him. Just almost. “He knows how this works?”

Frank does know who Link is. He’s the reason all of this started, isn’t he? If he hadn’t sent Rhett out like a lamb to the slaughter, he wouldn’t be here right now. He’d be in his apartment. He’d be sleeping in his own bed. He’d be worrying about things like calling his mom instead of if Link was going to drag him along for another murder.

It’s not that he’s bitter.

But Frank doesn’t know how any of this works. He owns a pawn shop in the middle of nowhere, hides behind a cell phone, and pays the youngest and newest the cheapest rates Rhett’s ever come across to do his work for him. All of Frank’s knowledge about how to play the game comes from movies and whatever he types into the Google search bar late at night when nobody is looking.

So the idea that Frank is trying to dangle this in front of them, like they’re in some way afraid of what he’s going to do, what the little ducklings he keeps sending out for them are going to do—it’s absurd.

Really, the question isn’t whether or not Frank knows who Link is, what he’s capable of, it’s whether or not Frank takes all of this seriously, or if he knows what he’s doing; it’s if Frank knows what he’s just gotten himself into. When Link laughs again, shakes his head, Rhett wonders if Frank felt the shift in the tectonic plates, the magnetic charge in the air, the atoms in his body bending at will to Link’s tried and tested promises to snuff the life out of anyone who sticks their hand too far into the candy dish.   

Because something like this?

This is _insulting_. And Link isn’t the kind of person to take this as anything other than a challenge, a joke, a leg-up in the competition. Link is quicker than this, he’s on a completely different level than Frank, and Rhett sees the anger, the discontent settle into the line of his shoulders. Hiding behind pen and paper is worse than hiding behind other men in this game. Frank’s done both now, exclusively.

And, man, Rhett feels bad for Frank for just a moment. A fleeting whisper of a second has him wincing at the thought of how Frank’s face is going to look at the end of this. All up until he remembers who Frank is, exactly. All until he remembers that Frank deserves whatever comes his way, that he’s just opened the gates for the punishment Link is so good at doling out.

Link crumples the letter, envelope and all, and tosses it over his shoulder, says, “Let them show up.”

Thus the decision is made, and it’s exactly as Rhett thought it would be. Everything about Link says that this is the only outcome this situation ever had. From the very beginning of its creation, this is how it was to be played out.

_He_ was the one to bring it up, anyway. It’s what Link wanted from him. It’s what Link promised he could make happen.

Rhett has a theory he’s working on, a budding idea of how Link’s brain must be wired.  The more he pokes at it, feeds it information and facts and kick starts all the cogs in that godforsaken machine, the more it twists Rhett’s words to feed Link’s ego. Somehow, like a self-absorbed sponge, Link’s brain manages to relate everything to himself. There’s a mechanism inside of him that prevents him from ever admitting he’s wrong.

The problem is that he’s bulletproof and ten feet tall.

Rhett isn’t stupid enough to try and tell him he isn’t, to try and talk him out of doing something.

And, somehow, Link never does really lose. He has his self-righteousness confirmed again and again without fail. It doesn’t always necessarily happen in the outcome Link formulates for himself, but somehow things work out for him. Somehow, everyone in the room is convinced he’s right, that he’s in charge, that he’s got the upper hand. Somehow, Link walks out with the starch still in his shirt.

It never goes any other way. Link opens fire in someone’s home, and Rhett’s the one who ends up with a fucking bullet in his shoulder. Link ties a man to a chair after breaking into a house, and the night ends with them stuffing his lifeless body in a wine barrel. For fuck’s sake, Rhett seduces him with the sole intention of robbing him, and Link somehow manages to acquire a business partner out of the situation.

But Rhett fully believes in karma, in some pull of the earth that returns whatever is put into the universe. So Link is going to get his. He’s going to find himself on his back one day.

Rhett’s just along for the ride.

He’s not here to save anyone.

He’s never claimed to be a good man, and he’s sure as hell never claimed to be anything to Link. On the day when Link does finally fall from grace, Rhett just hopes he’s far, far away from the situation. He’s got a feeling it’s going to be nuclear. It’s going to happen fast and hard and with a lot more than just Link hitting the ground.

This state of being that Link’s got, this teasing game that he’s always a step in front despite playing with his own tampered deck, permeates every space in Link’s life. It follows him in thick clouds, in smudges on his hands. It’s why Sheila was so trusting. It’s why Rhett thought he could get away with it that first night.

It’s why Frank had no problem sending so many guys in, thinking the new ones were just stumbling over their own shaky knees and ending up back on his doorstep in boxes, thinking Rhett was too sure in his footing to fail. It’s why Frank is so cocksure right now, why he’s okay with doing stupid shit like leaving Rhett a letter in his mailbox when he knows there’s an assassin in Rhett’s back pocket, when he knows that assassin doesn’t exactly like him being alive.

Link keeps himself unassuming. He stays quiet and charming and kind, hands sly and shaky, eyes bright and youthful. His smile is honest, his movements calm and sure. He’s sneaky. He’s _dangerous_.

The problem with all of this is that Link is self-aware. It’s how he plays this game, as violent and chaotic as it may be.

Rhett asks him one night, “What happened to you?”

Link’s between his legs at the time, sweaty and satiated and still catching his breath. His head is on Rhett’s chest, and he feels the huff of laughter more than he hears it, the warmth against his chest making him hum. Link shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders.

Rhett’s almost fucked out enough to let it slide, let the conversation fall there. His veins are fuzzy, though, sticky and tacky, so he says, “Seriously, man. What happened? How’d you end up here?”

Link’s whole body rises when he sucks in a deep breath, and all he says is, “I had a lot of stepparents growing up.”

There’s a pause, and Rhett almost has the instinct to apologize, keeps his mouth shut at the last second. Instead, he says, “How’d that work out for you?”

“Third girlfriend my dad had, her name was Jerry.” He presses a kiss to Rhett’s sternum, diverting his attention away from the conversation. “Jerry liked to eat, right? Like, she’d hide cake in her nightstand. She’d have candy stuffed in her pockets all the time. I’d wake up real late and find her in the kitchen, eatin’ ice cream straight out of the carton.”

Rhett listens to him slur through his story, feels his heart still jack-hammering away in his chest. If it’s nerves or being post coital, Rhett doesn’t really know, can’t really tell.

He bites, just a little, and says, “Jerry also used to have a problem with drinking. She had a real sweet tooth, Rhett, and one night we were out of Little Debbies. My dad wasn’t home. She piled her and I into the front seat of my dad’s single cab truck, took off down the road with half a fifth of Jack in her gullet.”

Rhett’s stomach drops, his palms start sweating. The story’s end is in plain sight, and Rhett can almost smell the tires burnt into the asphalt.

But Link says, “The drive went fine, just a little wobbly. She got her cake and bought me a Coke. When she sent me back to bed that night, she told me it was lines on the road that were crooked, not her driving.”

“You dodged a bullet.”

Link hums in agreement. He drums his fingers along Rhett’s ribs. “My mom had a husband. The first one after my dad. I don’t like to talk about him much, so I won’t tell you his name. But let’s just say he was rough. He was loud, waved his arms a lot when he talked.”

He pokes Rhett in the side. “He was real big, like you.”

“You telling me you got a daddy thing, man?” Rhett teases, not liking the tension, the way the room is unsettled around them, nervous energy making his bones ache.

“You wish,” Link laughs, looking up at Rhett from where he’s been sucking marks into his chest. “No, he—he just always made me real nervous. I remember they used to hold me down to do things like clip my toenails and stuff. I was a skittish child.”

Rhett wants to say, ‘ _Who, you_?’ He wants to put a hand on his chest and bite his knuckle, play it up for the camera, but he feels like poking and prodding right now would be unfair, would cut the story off short with a bite and a snarl and a bruise for later.

Instead, he raises his eyebrows when Link says, “I watched him shoot a man for trespassing onto our property. They raised donkeys, and the guy was coming to steal a couple late one night.”

There’s a finger poked right in Rhett’s soft parts, above his bellybutton and a little to the right.

“He survived, and he’s walking around with a nasty scar over some donkeys,” Link tells him. Rhett lets out a breath he had no idea he was holding. With his lungs, Link deflates a little bit. Goosebumps have risen on his skin, and he’s reaching for the blankets that spend more time bunched on one side of the bed lately. “My dad doesn’t date anymore. The last girlfriend he had was a nice lady, but she kept secrets from him.”

He rolls off of Rhett, wincing at the pull of his skin against Rhett’s, the sweat having cooled on them both.

He says, “One of those secrets was a friend. His name was Terrance. He lived in California and he had a few guys who he did some trading with, some ‘ _real, honest work, Link_. _Why don’t you try moving out there with him and see if it’ll help you get into film school since you want it so bad?_ ’” There’s the clacking of his glasses landing on the bedside table, a groan while he rubs at his tired eyes. “So, I did. Terrance and his boys were pedaling stolen jewelry out of a warehouse in SoCal.”

There’s a stirring in the back of his head that’s saying maybe Rhett bit off more than he can chew with this question.

“They knew some important people, some big guys who liked how small I was, how I could get real loud, real big like my stepdad was. They liked the sweet talking I learned from my stepmom,” Link tells him. “So, really, _they’re_ what happened to me. My stepparents.”

He stretches out in bed, turns his back to Rhett, and says, “My whole life, I watched a lot of people skirt death. I guess it wasn’t that much of a shock when I saw it happen for real the first time because I’d already gotten used to the sinking feeling.” After a beat, “Whether that’s their faults or not, it’s what made it an instinct for me to pick up that knife the first time. It ain’t in my blood, but it’s in my past.”

The slick sounds of Link tossing in the sheets echoes around for a second, bracketed by a couple of hums from Link that Rhett takes as the last contributions of his to the conversation. Rhett doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t have any way to convey how he’s feeling other than to reach out and blindly grab at Link.

There’s a feeling hidden somewhere in him, a twisting, an uncommon pang of sympathy for the child Link never really got to be. He wants to apologize to that little boy for the man he eventually becomes—for the force of nature he turns into, the tornado, the havoc and chaos that follows him around for the rest of his life.

Instead, what he says is, “Where’d you grow up?”

“North Carolina,” Link says, voice gone thick with falling asleep. “Buies Creek.”

Rhett can’t help the laugh that falls out of him, the way he shakes his head and balls his fists in disbelief. When Link grunts, reaches back to slap at him, to get him to shut up, Rhett sighs and tells him, “My dad almost took a job at Campbell University.”

And, really, that’s a thought, isn’t it? What would have happened had they met as children? Rhett was maybe six when his father denied the offer to move from Georgia to North Carolina. The crossing of their paths would have been inevitable. The only real question is if they would have gotten along, if Rhett, being the child he was, would have gotten along with the child he can only imagine Link would have been.

When Rhett was young, he wasn’t very different from how he is now, if he’s honest with himself. Link, without a doubt, couldn’t have been much different, either. Not with a personality like that. Rhett can see Link, smaller and slighter, his hands still shaking but his eyes challenging everyone that managed to catch them. He just knows Link was the kid in high school doing absurd things just to get a rise out of people, just to get attention, just to prove that he could. Rhett’s willing to put money on the idea that they’d have been friends if things would have happened differently.

And, had that happened, maybe neither of them would have ended up here at all. Maybe Rhett’s dad would have kept them both motivated to do things differently. Maybe they’d have motivated each other. Maybe neither of them would have accepted the sketchy offers that landed them here.

Maybe they’d still be sharing a bed, but with different stories lacing them together so delicately.

When he rolls over to look at Link, still waiting for an answer or a reaction, he finds him asleep. His mouth is open, eyes shut, face slack. He looks so different like this. Something about the way the emotion is gone from his eyes, from his eyebrows, the way his mouth isn’t talking or grinning—it shapes him into a different kind of monster. The shadows sink his eyes in a little more, exaggerate his chin and his cheekbones, and Rhett has to turn back over, has to stop looking at him.

Link has made it easy to forget how this all started. He’s circled Rhett like a group of vultures, waited for the body to rot, and now that it has, Rhett’s forgotten that this began with him on his knees with a gun pointed at his head. It began with a demand, a price tag trailing behind him.

It makes Rhett want to know if that price tag is still there, just crossed out, filled in with a new price, a new label. He’s not his own anymore. He’s been passed from hand to hand, given a task, asked to fulfill without qualm. His bank account is full. _He’s_ full, a lot of the time, with Link’s fingers, his cock, whatever he decides. But the rest of his life is lacking, empty and scraped clean to make space for this part of himself.

It’s easy to forget how this started.

Frank is supposedly on his way here from some undisclosed location, and Link’s content to sit back and wait for things to happen to them. He’s content to wait and see if Frank carries out his promise. The problem is that Rhett knows he will. It’ll probably take him a while, a couple more days or weeks or months of motivation for him to stop pussyfooting around, thinking he’s got a hand in the pot that wasn’t even his to piss in. He’ll show up, though.

Rhett isn’t sure if he wants to be here when he does. It would be cowardly to leave, but he didn’t ask for any of this. This isn’t his fight. He’s the middle man, right? He isn’t on a side, right? He’s just an employee.

He doesn’t know anymore, really. He can’t tell. There’s blood on his hands, on a shirt that Link’s had soaking in club soda for days now. He can whisper, ‘Out, out, damn spot,’ to himself all he wants, but it’s never going to fade. The lines that were there when all of this began have been blurred.

He rolls onto his side, faces away from Link, and forces himself to fall asleep and shut his brain off for just a little while.

That night, he lucid dreams for the first time since he was a child. It’s short-lived before Link is pushing at him in real life, mumbling at him about rolling over a little.

But in the dream he flies, once he realizes what’s happening. When he was little and this would happen, he’d fly to a girl’s house only to be turned away by her mother before he ever got inside, but tonight he flies home. He flies to Georgia. His mom opens the door, smiling and happy, and he hugs her without hesitation, teary-eyed and emotional, the thick lump of it sitting in the back of his throat painfully. She isn’t crying when he pulls away. Instead, she pulls him into the house, where it smells like fried chicken and apple pie.

It ends right there, cut short by Link. He’s not too bothered by it, feeling homesick enough already, just from the little bit of his dream. He falls back asleep within a couple of minutes, and this time there are no dreams at all.

He wakes up officially well before Link, who just spills over onto the rest of the bed when Rhett swings his legs over the side, stands up to stretch. The bed is big enough for the two of them to sleep without touching, but Link is clingy, always manages to throw an arm or leg over Rhett in the middle of the night. Rhett watches him settle in the warmth of Rhett’s side of the bed, shaking his head when he buries his face in Rhett’s pillow, wriggling around a bit more before tugging the blanket higher up himself, settling again with a sigh.

In the kitchen, Rhett eats the rest of Link’s strawberries, makes himself toast with the bread he bought them the other day, and fixes himself a pot of coffee. The sun still hasn’t come up, the sky turning orange and pink slowly but surely. Rhett never hears the house creek with any indication of Link waking up. It’s peaceful. This early, nothing ever feels real. He feels like he’s floating, light and airy, his head still thick with sleep.

And without Link in the center of it, the house is calm. It settles his nerves a little bit. Without Link over his shoulder, he makes a few phone calls he’s been putting off.

He catches Stevie as she’s walking out of her front door. He can tell by the way she sighs before answering, can hear the jiggling of her keys in the lock. She answers with an annoyed, “You couldn’t have chosen a better time to decide to call and let me know you’re still alive?”

“I don’t get a lot of time to myself lately,” Rhett tells her. He knows he sounds equally annoyed, but he’s never done well with being snapped at.

Stevie pauses, the line going quiet enough to startle him into thinking she might have hung up on him. But then he hears, “Full disclosure.”

It’s her signal, her permission for him to be straight up with her. So he says, “Link and I are taking your advice.”

“Which advice? I’ve given you plenty over the years.”

She’s getting in her car—he can hear the engine start.

He smiles. “The most recent advice.”

She hums under her breath, and Rhett waits. She goes quiet again, but he can hear the radio, the air conditioner, the gravel crunching under her tires as she pulls out of her driveway. He hears her drum her fingers on the steering wheel when she asks, “Y’all gonna win?”

“Link always wins,” he promises.

“I’m not worried about Link. I couldn’t give a shit less about Link,” she tells him, her voice wavers just a little, giving her away. It’s not often he gets a peek through her tough exterior.

Instead of calling her out on it, all he says is, “I know. I’m going to be fine, Stevie.”

“Well, let’s plan lunch so that you have a reason to make sure you keep your fucking promise, McLaughlin.”

 They do. Rhett tells her he’ll call when it’s all said and done, and they can plan it then. She says okay, asks him how he’s doing, really. Promises that he’s fine, that he’s okay, that he hasn’t been shot recently and Link is treating him real, and the conversation ends.  

The next phone call he has to make settles sickly in the pit of his stomach. But he’s already made his decision. He’s already got everything figured out. His best bet is to handle this delicately.

Link is still asleep, and Rhett is content to let him. They went to bed late last night, so Rhett’s sure he’ll sleep in for a while. The sun is barely showing signs of rising, and Link doesn’t like to be conscious until everything is already warmed up for him.

Link is particular, likes for things to be tailored to be the absolute best for him. He doesn’t like for there to be any sort of inconvenience, doesn’t like for anything to be uncomfortable. So Rhett is sure to be quiet when he gathers the things he’s got hanging around the house, keys and shoes and chargers easy to stuff in his pockets while he scrolls through his phone, types in the information he needs to book a flight. He leaves Link a note, handwritten and careful, laced with an apology he only barely means.

There’s a promise hidden there, too. That one he means.

In the car, his heart starts racing, and he almost decides against pressing the call button.

He’s glad he does when the other end picks up, answers with a sweet breath of fresh air he hadn’t realized he’d been missing so viscerally all this time.

“Hey, momma,” he says, feeling just a little choked up, swallowing down that same lump from his dream. “I’m just calling you let you know I’m coming home for a little bit, okay? My flight is in a few hours.”


	9. The Spider and The Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me over at [tumblr](http://cockymclaughlin.tumblr.com/) if that's something you're into!

The Georgian sun is like no other.

Everybody tells him it’s the same sun in the same sky, but Rhett’s never believed them. There’s something special about the sun in Georgia. It’s different. It’s brighter but kinder, leaving the body feeling recharged and fresh. Maybe it’s the sweet tea his momma gives him in a big glass, the sandwich she fixes for him after fussing over how small he looks.

He tells her, “Momma, there ain’t nothing small about me.”

She just waves him off, asks him if he wants white or wheat, turkey or ham, American or Swiss.

They got a dog since he left. Her name’s Dolly and she’s small and sweet, curls up at his feet when he’s sitting on the chair outside and on his lap when he’s on the couch inside. She stays with him, eats the crumbs off his lap before he gets a chance to wipe them off. He scratches behind her ears, thinks maybe he should get a dog. Jade was only around a little bit, Link having sent her with friends so they could work. But the little bit of time Rhett got to spend with her, he liked having her around. Dolly is much the same, kind and happy, his fuzzy nerves leaving when she’s around.

Maybe he’ll get a dog.

His dad gives him space, hugs him once before stuffing his hands in his pockets and retreating back to his recliner in the living room. The TV is loud, and Rhett feels the weight of everything lift off of his shoulders. He’s home. Everything is exactly as it’s always been. There’s a stock of food, cabinets and refrigerator full in a sight that he hasn’t seen in so long. His room looks the same, too. His momma never touched it except to replace the twin bed with a queen, leaving it for whenever Rhett decided to visit. It’s been too long since he has, and he promises this house silently that he’ll make it a priority to come back soon. He’ll make a habit of it.

“You’ve been out here for a long time,” his momma says, her voice low and familiar, coming around the corner. He wipes the crumbs off of his shirt, rubs at his beard to get any that may have fallen there, too. “Are you alright, son?”

And she’s right there, with a gentle hand on his shoulder and real, honest concern in her eyes. On one hand, he hates that she’s worried. On the other, it feels nice to be worried about. He tries hard not to think about the fact that she’s probably always worried about him, and focuses on this feeling for now.

He does say, “I’m alright, momma. You alright?”

She smiles at him, slides into the chair next to his, and puts her hand on top of the one he’s got resting on the arm of his chair. There’s a sigh, and she tells him, “No. I’m not. I’m worried about you.”

Something in him says to say she should be, to tell her the truth. A pinch in his gut says to tell her that Link is probably going to kill him when he goes back to California, that he’s got an actual, honest to god assassin waiting on him back home, pissed and betrayed. It’s right there, on the tip of his tongue.

Instead, he lies, “There’s nothing to be worried about.”

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong. I’m not asking you to talk to me about it.” Her voice is low, serious, giving him flashbacks to getting in trouble, getting a flick in church for yawning too loudly. “But don’t lie to me, Rhett.”

Rhett sucks in a breath, leans his head back on the chair and lets his eyes fall shut. Sighing, he tells her, “I’m figuring it out. I’m gonna be okay.”

“I know you keep secrets from us,” she says. And this time her voice is meek, like she’s nervous, like she’s admitting something she shouldn’t be. “Your life is different than ours is, son, and we respect it. You seemed happy for a long time, so it was hard to know why I was so concerned. But I had this gut feeling.”

Rhett feels his eyes get wet. He feels a lump in his throat.

“I just knew something was wrong.” She squeezes his hand in her own, brings it up to her mouth to press a kiss to the back. “Baby, getting a good look at you today just told me that I was right. You don’t have to keep these secrets anymore.”

He doesn’t know what to say, lets the words sink in, lets the tension build.

After a second, he says, “I can’t, momma.”

He turns his head, looks at her, sees her squeeze her eyes shut, tears streaming down her face. She blows out a breath, gives him a watery smile. “I’m worried about you,” she says again, nodding her head as she wipes at her tears with her knuckles.

It’s hard to watch her stand, listen to her sniffling as she picks up his plate, his cup. Even harder, still, to have everything fall silent once she goes inside, Dolly jumping down and following her in.

He can’t hear the cicadas tonight, can’t hear the crickets. There are no stars in the sky, just angry, grey clouds. It’s going to rain, supposed to get real ugly, and he’s looking forward to it.

He needs the rain, needs to feel like something is cleansing his soul. Being here is a start; now he just needs for the sky to open up and finish the job. He needs the deep, rolling thunder, the flashes of purple lightning.

It breaks loose when the sun goes down, the lightning coming in before the thunder, and Rhett refills his glass to watch the storm roll through. He sneaks in some whiskey this time, finds an old bottle hidden in the pantry. It’s his dad’s, probably from years and years ago, only taken out during holidays for a quick drink with his brothers.

Rhett makes himself feel a little bit guilty for only a second before he stops caring as much, decides he’ll never even know it happened.

Three drinks later, and Rhett begins to rethink his logic and starts to actually feel a little guilty. The storm picks up, mist from the rain just barely hitting his socks. Lightning turns the sky purple and the shadows of the trees are angry and violent and thematic.

He wonders what Link is doing right now.

The real storm in his life is across the country, waiting for Rhett to step back into his sticky web.

Stealing a glance at his phone for the first time since he got here, he cringes. There are a slew of missed calls and texts from Link, but he doesn’t bother looking at any of it. He just catches sight of the time and pretends none of it is there. Calling Link back isn’t in his plan. Things are going to be just fine. He’s got this under control.

As he’s putting his phone down on the table next to the chair, it lights up with another call. He presses the button to cancel it and turns his attention back to the rain.

He waits until the sky calms down, until his own breathing evens out, until his glass is re-emptied. And then he goes inside, strips down to his boxers, and falls face-first into the bed that replaced his from childhood.

It’s bigger to accommodate Rhett’s size, bought a few years back when he was still visiting pretty regularly. The comfort of just the act alone, the idea that he’s loved enough here to be thought about this way, is enough to cradle him gently into a deep, cathartic sleep.

\--

In the morning, he wakes up gently for the first time in a long time, easing into consciousness as he blinks away the sleep from his eyes, rolling onto his stomach to stretch further out on the bed. The sheets are soft, warm and smelling like fabric softener still. The blankets are familiar, plush and comfortable and easy to wrap himself up in, bury his face from the morning sun filtering through the blinds.

He doesn’t bother checking his phone, leaving it charging on the nightstand as he stands up, scratches through his beard. His shirt is bunched up on the floor, his sweatpants right next to them, and he almost forgets to tug them both on before he finds his way to the kitchen.

As expected, his mom has breakfast cooked, the food having cooled by now, but he doesn’t mind it as he grabs the plate already made for him, pours himself a cup of coffee. His dad is still sitting at the table when he meanders his way to the dining room. The headline on the newspaper is something about a tragedy in another country, and Rhett avoids looking at it, focusing on the food in front of him instead as he sits.

“Mornin’,” his dad tells him, a soft, kind smile on his face.

Rhett nods, swallows his food before mirroring, “Good mornin’, dad.”

“Coming to church with us this morning?”

As opposed to answering right away, he raises his eyebrows, takes another sip of coffee. His dad very patiently, very nearly condescendingly keeps reading the paper, never taking his eyes off of it, never so much as glancing up at Rhett.

After a second, enough of an awkward silence to have Rhett’s palms sweating, he finally tells his dad, “Uh, sure. Yeah, sure. I’ll go.”

Only then does he get an actual look, quick and shocked, and followed up with a smile and a quick, “We go at eleven.”

“Okay,” Rhett says.

A quick glance at the clock on the wall tells him he’s got about an hour, which is enough time to finish eating and sneak in a quick shower. He’s already nervous, already overwhelmed, but maybe throwing himself into this town again, this lifestyle, this area of his past—maybe this is what he needs right now. Maybe it’ll help.

It probably won’t. But he’s never been above wishful thinking.

They sit in silence while Rhett eats, and it doesn’t settle well with him. There isn’t anything in common between them, not since Rhett’s been in California, not since he gave up on everything his dad made him work for during his childhood. Things have been strained between them ever since he dropped out and moved across the country. He doesn’t suspect it’ll be any different now, just because they’re in the same room, just because he’s agreed to go to church with them. There’s a split second where he almost tries, pipes up and says something to break the tension.

Instead, he scrapes the last bits of pancake off his plate and finishes the last, most crucial gulp of coffee before leaving. And he leaves everything unsaid, sitting on the table still, a pile of grief and anger and betrayal that he’s never going to touch, that they’re never going to acknowledge.

That’s not what he’s here for. That’s not how the McLaughlin men work.

Upstairs, he washes off the night before. The storm is still sticking to his skin when he steps under the spray, the weight of his mother’s worry, the guilt that’s nestled its way into his bones. But the warm water works at it, worms the stress from his muscles, until he’s sighing under the showerhead, wiping his hands over his face, running them down his torso, his thighs, his legs. He cards his fingers through his hair, breaks up two days worth of product until it’s soft and manageable.

By the time he steps out, he smells like lavender and vanilla, feels a bit more like a human being. He hadn’t brought anything special to wear, sticking mostly to jeans and t-shirts, but there’s a button-up stuffed at the very bottom of his suitcase from his last trip, a better pair of pants rolled up without real intentions of being used. As soon as he’s dressed, hair adjusted as best as possible, he’s ignoring the vibrating of his phone on the nightstand, leaving the room in a rush of applying deodorant and cologne at the same time.

“Well, don’t you look nice,” his mom greets him as he’s finding his way back to the kitchen.

He leans down with a smile, kisses her on the cheek.

There’s a response on the tip of his tongue, but he hears his dad calling for him before he’s able to say anything, return the compliment. He hears his name again, this time a little confused, concerned, and he furrows his brow as he walks through the house, finding his dad at the front door.

Rhett hadn’t even heard anybody knocking.

When Rhett was younger, and he’d do something worthy of getting himself punished, his dad always had a certain stance he took. He’d put his hands on his hips, curling in his lips in a look of disappointment. He’d puff out his chest, shake his head while giving Rhett a talking to. And if it was bad enough to make him angry, there would be a belt involved, a sterner tone of voice, his cheeks and neck getting redder by the second.

Rhett can remember one time in particular, when he got caught with a girl in his room. His mom had walked in on them, Rhett’s hand creeping up a pretty pink skirt while his other hand was preoccupied trying to unhook her bra. He doesn’t even remember exactly how they both reacted at being caught, just remembers her tugging her clothes back in place, blushing furiously, and apologizing to his momma as she hurried out the house. And he remembers his dad, standing in the doorway while he talked to Rhett about waiting, about love, about respect. He’d had a different look on his face then.

The look that he’s getting right now is not a look he’s ever seen. In all of his years of getting in trouble, Rhett’s never seen his father look _worried_ like he does right now.

Rhett can only imagine that he’s got a similar look on his face as he sidesteps his dad, mumbling a quick apology, an unsure, “Y’all go on to church, okay?”

And he turns to face Link.

There’s a static pop in the air when they lock eyes. The hair on the back of Rhett’s neck stands up like he’s about to get struck by lightning. The house around them breathes, groans, creaks in protest. This isn’t how this was supposed to happen.

Only after his dad has left does Rhett ask, “How’d you find me?”

“Don’t insult me, Rhett,” Link says. He’s clenching his jaw, and he leans in a little bit closer, presses his shoulder to the doorframe, tries to peer inside. Rhett stops him with a nudge, and Link breathes out a chuckle. He shakes his head, crinkles his nose. “I’m not gonna hurt them.”

“Come on, we can talk in the back.” Rhett squeezes in a little closer, encouraging Link to step back so they can talk outside, get away from the house, from his parents. The last thing Rhett needs is for them to overhear this conversation.

Link gives him a look, a once-over like it’s been weeks instead of a couple of days since he’s seen Rhett, and gives Rhett enough space to lead him to the backyard. It’s a nice day outside, and Rhett thinks this conversation is best suited to take place in the far corner of the yard, where his dad’s got a table and chairs set up.

As he sits, gets himself situated, Link tells him, “This is a nice little place your folks have.”

“How’d you find me?”

Link’s smile grows, his tongue coming out to lick his bottom lip before his teeth sink in and he’s leaning forward to rest on his elbows. He narrows his eyes at Rhett, points an accusatory finger at him. Then he says, “You left.”

“I did,” Rhett agrees. “I’m—“

But Link cuts him off with a, “I’m not here for an apology, Rhett. Save your breath.”

“Then why are you here?” After a second, he tries again: “How’d you find me, Link?”

It earns him a laugh, one of the ones Link reserves for people he doesn’t like. This whole interaction has been Link treating him like he treats everyone else, people he’s stealing from, people he’s tying up to beat within an inch of their lives. It doesn’t feel right, doesn’t fit with Rhett very well at all, and when Link sits back again, shrugs his shoulders, it makes his stomach drop.

“You left your mail at my house. A sweet letter from Diane McLaughlin was nestled between coupons and a water bill,” Link tells him. “It wasn’t hard to connect the dots. I’m a fucking assassin, Rhett—did you think I wouldn’t be able to find you?”

There’s contempt dripping off his every word, his mouth working around the syllables like he can’t get them out fast enough. Rhett watches his brow furrow, watches his shoulders get tense as he waits for a response from Rhett. When he doesn’t get one fast enough, he says, “Did you think that running would work for you? It’s like a rabbit running from a wolf.”

“I thought Frank would get to you first,” Rhett tells him. The words feel weird on his tongue.

It’s almost startling when Link throws his head back, puts a hand on his chest and _laughs_ , his cackles growing wilder and louder the longer he goes, drawing it out until it’s echoing around them viciously. As he’s catching his breath, he tells Rhett, “You’re telling me you were putting your bets on Frank? Oh, Rhett.”

“I sure as hell didn’t think you’d find me all the way out here.”

Link locks eyes with him, breathes out a couple more soft laughs. Lowly, he tells Rhett, “I want you to listen to me very closely.” He leans forward, rests on his elbows again. The eye-contact unwavering, uncomfortable, he says, “There’s not a hole a person on this earth can dig themselves into that I won’t be able to find them inside of.”

Rhett lets the words hang between them, feeling the nerves settle thick and hard in the base of his stomach, wrapping themselves around the vessels of his heart and squeezing too tightly. He watches Link, keeps his eyes on the vein on the side of his forehead, the shape of his nose, everything but his eyes, the way he’s still looking at Rhett, still taking him in.

It’s weird, having his cover blown to pieces like this. Part of him doesn’t want to believe this is real. Part of him wants to think this is a fever dream, that he never woke up this morning, heavy from the whiskey last night. But then Link reaches out, wraps his slender fingers around Rhett’s wrist, finding his pulse and holding there while he asks, “You wanna tell me why you left?” It centers everything again, solidifies it, slides it all back into place effortlessly.

Link’s fingers turn Rhett’s hand over, trace gently over the lines on his palm, the length of his fingers. It’s hard to focus, to remember what words he wants to say, how he was hoping to explain himself when he got back home. He settles on, “It’s not my fight, Link.”

“It is your fight,” Link argues, voice gone soft. “This all started with you.”

“It started with _you_.” It started with him, with Link, with a fucking job. This isn’t his fight. He doesn’t kill people.

That’s Link’s job.

Rhett can’t—he can’t just flip a switch and change that. He can help Link stuff bodies into barrels and convince himself self defense doesn’t count. He can tie a man up in his home, beat him almost to death, call Link over to clean up his mess, and thank him for saving his life. But he _can’t_ kill Frank.

He can’t kill anybody.

And that’s what Link wants. He doesn’t have to say it, doesn’t have to actually verbalize anything, but Rhett knows that’s his angle. That’s why he came all the way out here, isn’t it? That’s why Link inconvenienced himself, swallowed the uncomfortable feeling of having things feel slightly out of place and flew all the way down to Georgia to find Rhett. If having Rhett kill Frank wasn’t his plan, then he’d have done it without bothering to find Rhett. He wouldn’t have left his home, would have just sat and waited for them to come to him like he’d wanted to do all along. Like they were supposed to do together.

But Rhett threw a wrench in that plan, left a hole in his strategy, and now here they are. Link had to come fetch his weapon, and he’s pissed about it.

Filling the silence, pulling Rhett away from his thoughts, Link asks “Do you believe in God?”

Pulling in a shuddery breath, Rhett tells him, “I used to.”

Humming, Link says, “Not quite what I asked. Focus for me, okay? Do you believe in God?”

Alright, then: “No.”

He used to. He’s not sure when he stopped, but he knows it was well before he wasn’t going to church anymore, well before he’d left for college and his mom gave him a guardian angel pin to keep in his car.

“You were going to church this morning, right?” He traces the tip of his finger over Rhett’s wrist, presses there with his thumb.

“I was,” Rhett tells him, shivering at how light Link’s touches are, the sensation tickling and winding down his whole arm.

After a second, a tilt of his head and narrowing of his eyes again, Link asks, “Do you ever tell anyone the truth? Tell me a single time that you’ve told somebody the truth when it mattered.”

There’s a wall, an exterior barrier that Rhett feels crack, the foundation compromised as Link pokes and prods at him. And then he realizes the turn this conversation is taking, all signs pointing to Link pinning him down, calling him out.

When he says, “Do something you want to do, for once. Give into just one of those gut feelings,” he presses his thumb in too hard, sending a jolt of pain straight through Rhett’s arm. “You wanted to punch me in the face that night you got shot. You wanted to _so bad_. And you wanted to walk out of that house the night I killed Raul. Next time, fucking do it.”

Rhett turns his head, tries to wrench his hand from Link’s grasp, get away from the pinching, burning feeling of Link pressing down too hard on a nerve.

He’s not thinking, not when Link presses down even harder, not when his voice is ringing in his head, the memories of the nights he’s talking about.

 “Grow a fucking spine, Rhett,” Link says, finally letting him go, leaning back in his chair.

“You kill people, Link,” Rhett reminds him, shaking the vibrations out of his arm. “You _kill_ people. And I’m supposed to take advice from you? I’m supposed to just listen to you when you tell me to react before I think, right? I’m supposed to do like you and not think about the consequences of my actions, not take a fucking second to wonder how other people are going to be affected by what I do. Right? That’s what I’m supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to handle your own shit! Fuck the consequences!” Link says, pointing his finger at Rhett again. “Let me remind you that you walked into my home and started all of this.”

“It’s not—“

“Tell me this isn’t your fault. Please, I’d really love to hear you say that one more time.” Rhett catches him grin, sees the incredulous look on his face. “The truth is that you can’t bear to take the blame for all of this. You got caught and landed yourself in this situation, and you can’t admit that, can you?”

They lock eyes, and Rhett feels himself start to shake, feels the twisting in his gut, feels everything rattle apart as he says, “I can’t kill him, man.”

Link looks away from him, takes a deep breath.

The thing is, when Rhett said they needed to kill Frank, when he’d made the decision, stuffed his hands down Link’s pants and whispered it to him like some sort of perverse promise, he didn’t mean _he_ was going to kill Frank. Their arrangement doesn’t work that way. Rhett still, even through all of this, has never killed anyone. He’d like to keep it that way. He doesn’t want to meet the version of himself that would want to change that.

Except he’s staring right at him, sitting across the table from him outside his parents’ house while they’re at church, probably praying that their son finds his way out of whatever wicked deeds they’ve dreamt up.

Link tilts his head back, licks his lips as he breathes out a laugh. When they lock eyes again, Link tells him, “You’re going to kill him, though. No more bullshit, no more running, no more fucking _lies_ , Rhett. You want to kill him. So you’re going to kill him.”

Somewhere, a bird is singing, and Rhett hears a garbage truck in the distance, his old neighborhood alive around him, around this terrible conversation. Life is going on, curling and twisting around this little bubble they’ve carved out for themselves. Even Link looks as alive as ever, well rested, clean cut, dressed sharply.

So it’s just Rhett that feels his heart drop out of his chest. It’s only Rhett that feels cornered, that feels like he’s gotten himself into something he never wanted.

It’s only Rhett that feels like everything has stopped, that the Earth has stopped spinning around him.

He only barely hears it when Link puts it all out there, verbalizes exactly what Rhett’s been trying to avoid, the ultimatum he tasted in the bile in the back of his throat.

“You’re going to kill Frank, Rhett,” he says. “Or Frank is going to kill you.”


	10. Comfortable In Chaos

To be maladaptive is not like Rhett. 

For most of his life, because of trips across the globe in his youth, extended vacations with friends in high school, he’s always been fairly good at taking whatever is given to him. He doesn’t need much to be content, doesn’t usually get nervous in high-stress situations. He adjusts by a force of habit if anything else, and it’s done him a lot of good in his profession.

It takes a lot to make him wary. Lately, it’s taken Link and a few guns, a few threats to make him wary. It takes _Link_ to make him wary.

But he’s got a firing squad staring him down in his living room, and he’s never quite wanted to be anywhere else but where he’s at like he does right now.

Stevie, with her hands on her hips, looks at him, waiting for an answer to her question of, “Do you want to come with us?”

He’s still in his sweatpants, and the group he’s staring at is Stevie, Cassie, and two twenty-somethings with which he has nothing in common except their mutual connection with Stevie. Georgia is still sticking to him, and his breath still tastes like the argument he’d had with Link as soon as his plane had landed. He doesn’t want to go anywhere.

The restlessness of having just landed, of being jet-lagged and exhausted from an emotional parting from his parents has him screaming to tell Stevie no in his mind, but he doesn’t think he can handle someone else being disappointed in him. He’ll lose himself just a little if he has to apologize again today.

Besides, he could use a drink or two. He thinks that’s the last text he sent Stevie before she showed up at his house with her friends.

Eight eyes stare at him, and he swallows down the discomfort and finally says, “Sure. Give me ten minutes to clean up.”

They seem nice enough, and he gets a smile out of each of them as he stands, walks to his room. It’s weird to look over his shoulder and see a ragtag group of bohemian hipsters sitting in his living room, talking quietly amongst themselves while he stumbles his way into his bedroom to put on clothes that aren’t sweatpants and a holy, ten year old Batman t-shirt. Somehow, this is stranger than everything else he’s been going through.

He doesn’t know where they’re planning on taking him, but it hardly matters at this point. He’s made up his mind.

Cassie, when he steps back into his living room, his t-shirt exchanged for a fairly decent grey button-up, whistles at him and nods her head. He steals a wide-brimmed hat off of the hook on the wall, and he feels like he looks like he blends in with this group at last. Despite the age gap, he can see people not questioning if they’re all friends. He shoots Cassie a sheepish smile, and Stevie smacks him on the shoulder, motions that she’s got her eyes on him. Laughing, he puts his hands up in surrender.

Before they leave, she announces what Rhett was already prepared for and tells them all, “Guys, the goal for the night is to get Rhett absolutely smashed. I’m yet to be able to do it, so I hope you’re all up for the challenge.” The look he gets is one of challenge, and she bares her teeth when he shakes his head at her.

“If I pass out, are you gonna be able to drag me home?” he asks, locking his door and watching as all of them pile into the Jeep parked in his driveway.

Stevie flexes one of her biceps, winks at him, and he can’t help the way he laughs, loud and raucous and honest.

It’s a tight fit for all of them to squeeze into the Jeep, but it works. Rhett ends up getting the front seat, for which he’s grateful, and Eddie sits in the driver’s seat with a smile. As they leave, he sucks in a breath and steadies himself for the night. This will do him some good. He’s sure of it. He can adapt.

Maybe this will make him forget about the conversation he’d had with his parents before leaving. Maybe it’ll make the image of his father’s frown leave once and for all. It’s not that they reacted poorly, it’s that, when all of this started, this type of life he chooses to live, he hadn’t ever wanted to have this conversation with them. And once the words were leaving his mouth, the admission that he’s in trouble, that he’s gotten himself into a situation that’s dangerous and serious, he felt the precariously balanced lies all tumbling around him. He’d left without going into details, despite their desperate digging, their pleas for more information, for him to let them in so they could help.

He left a mess back home. So, why not get a little messy here, too?

It’s a strange sensation, to be driving down the streets he drives down so often, to be sitting in the passenger’s seat of a vehicle, and to not be going through floor plans in his head. He doesn’t once pull out his phone to double-check an address or read through an email or send a cryptic text.

All he does is enjoy the ride, gets pulled into more pictures than he ever remembers taking in his life, and talks to people he’s just met like he’s known them forever. By the time they’re parking, walking the couple of blocks it takes to get to the first bar, Rhett feels a lot less like he wants to be at home in his sweatpants.

By the time he’s got a drink in his hand, Eddie talking to him about film, about editing, about all these things Rhett’s only ever dreamed of doing, he feels _good_. The bar is nice, not too crowded, not too loud, and the martini he’s drinking is just what he needed.

It’s easy to forget about everything. It’s easy to let this night be what it is, not force anything upon it. And in reward, he gets a few more martinis before they’re tugging him out of the door, Stevie’s small hand in his and Cassie’s as they all walk down the street, chattering happily with each other.

It’s even easier, in the second bar they end up in, crammed into one booth, shoulders bumping into each other as they share a huge pizza, for Rhett to forget. As he drinks, as he eats and laughs and nudges into Eddie to lean in close and tell him a joke, he forgets about the rest of his life.

For the night, he’s just Rhett. He’s just Rhett.

Lizzie drags them to a third bar, promising a good atmosphere, and they end up staying for most of the night, settling into a little corner where they all sit in comfortable chairs and drink way too much.

Eddie sips on water, and Rhett thanks him for it, tells him he’s a good guy. He gets a smile and a salute in return.

And then he leans into Stevie, tells her, “Hey, thank you.” His eyes get wet, and she hushes him, waves him off, but puts her weight on him in an almost-hug and tells him very seriously, “You’re welcome.”

His chest feels full, and he shakes his head before he actually starts crying, before the emotions take over and he can’t help himself. He feels a small hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard, and he makes eye-contact with a red-cheeked Cassie, her smile knowing and just as full of emotion as his own.

Alcohol always has him weepy, has him choking up about things he tries really hard not to think about most of the time. Tonight, the swell of emotion in his chest comes from being surrounded by good people, by feeling like a real person for the first time in a long time. For now, everything else fades into the recesses of his brain, letting him shake loose and bump elbows with people who genuinely enjoy life, who are working towards goals and dreams.

Eddie and Lizzie are good sports, letting Rhett ask them questions about their degrees, their internships and portfolios while he sips on martinis, his words slurring the longer the night goes on. By the time he’s saying, “Man, I would have _loved_ to do something like that,” there’s a familiar warmth in his chest.

Around midnight, Stevie stands up, glass in her hand, and starts: “I’d like to make a toast to my good friend Rhett.”

“Here, here,” Cassie says happily, and Rhett hides his face, shoulders shaking while he laughs. He feels a hand carefully rubbing soothing circles on his shoulder, and he looks over to see Lizzie laughing while she pats him on the back.

When Stevie continues with, “He’s a good friend, a good man, and a fucking _alcohol camel_ ,” Rhett takes another sip of his drink to prove her point. “I have watched this man put away enough alcohol to put a frat house to shame tonight.”

“I’ve got a hollow leg,” he says, and she flips him off with a laugh before plopping herself down into Cassie’s lap. “I told you in the last bar that your plan was flawed.”

“When’s the last time you actually got drunk?” It comes from Lizzie, who looks happy to have Eddie’s arm around the back of her chair, Stevie’s feet in her lap while she drinks a dark-colored beer.

He’s told this story before, in some forum—probably to Link, probably tangled up in his sheets with a bottle of wine sitting on the bedside table. To keep it short, he tells them all, “The second night I was here—in California—I had someone break into my house. They took practically everything, cleaned me out completely. So, I bought myself a bottle of whiskey and drank the whole thing while I cried in the middle of my living room floor.” There’s more to it, a section of the story that involves a familiar face and an empty threat that shook him to his core, but he leaves it out for discretional purposes.

Everyone falls silent around him, and he plucks the cherry out of Stevie’s drink, eats it with a shrug.

The pause lingers for a second too long before Cassie is saying, “That’s the saddest fucking story I’ve ever heard in my life. And I think to bury it, we need a round of Irish car bombs.”

Lizzie is the first one up, Stevie standing up next to wrap her arm around Lizzie’s waist and follow her to the bar. Rhett feels okay, a little sloppy and fuzzy, but okay nonetheless. And when Eddie turns to ask, “You feeling alright?” he leans back in his chair, nodding his head and grinning.

He says, “I’m feeling great, man.”

There’s a period of time, barely a fraction of a second, between Lizzie and Stevie guiding a very frazzled-looking bartender over to their little corner they’ve commandeered and the countdown to all of them dropping the shot into the beer where Rhett catches a face he thinks he knows in the crowd. It’s only a moment, and he can’t even be sure it really happens. So instead of dwelling on it, instead of letting the sirens in his brain distract him from the night he’s having, he catches the end of the countdown just in time to drop his shot into his glass and chug his drink with the rest of them.

It burns going down, and he slams his glass down onto the table with a laugh and a whoop, and watches everyone else finish the last little bits of their drinks. He grabs at the next shot glass being placed in front of him, sloshing more of it over his hand than what lands in his mouth.

There’s a cathartic feeling to getting drunk, a mellow, floating ache in his limbs. He feels heavy and thick but not quite to that point yet right now, looking down at another round of shots being placed around them. Stevie is talking to the bartender still, chattering away and pointing at the group of them, tossing her head back to laugh when she walks back in the direction of the bar.

The burn on the back of his tongue doesn’t taste like Link anymore. And he smells like smoke and sweat instead of Georgia. But when he looks down at his shaky hands, he realizes that he’s running again, just like Link had accused him of doing in the backyard just a couple of days ago. It steels him, settles low in his belly with everything else tonight, and he’s suddenly very sure that he’s drunk.

The thing is, though, Link knows him better than anybody else, he thinks. Probably at this point, Link knows him better than he’s comfortable admitting. Link has watched him do all sorts of unspeakable things, has encouraged him into doing them in the most delicate of ways. There’s a fine line Link is walking, and Rhett’s not quite comfortable enough to admit any of it. But here, staring down round after round of shots, he’s pretty sure mumbling it into the bottom of his glass doesn’t really count.

Scanning the crowd he’s with, watching all of their faces curl up into smiles, break out into laughter, eyebrows raising as they toss back another shot, he feels a pang of jealousy crack through him. He could have been them, if only he had made some different choices. He could have gone to film school. He could have had the internship at some production company. He could be getting together with friends on the weekends, having a few drinks.

Instead, he’s leaving messes everywhere he goes, smeared with blood and tears and empty, echoing feelings of loss. He’s leaving holes in every area of his life, gauging out tunnels as he digs his way out of things.

Link was right. He knows he was. It’s Rhett that has to kill Frank because Rhett was the one who started all of this. Rhett got caught, and Rhett made the decision to stay with Link that night. He didn’t finish the job like he was supposed to. He didn’t put up a fight, just let Link roll him over, just gave up after the first little bit of resistance.

Ultimately, he thinks he’s glad he did. At the end of the day, if it comes down to Link or Frank, he knows who he’s choosing.

Despite it all, despite the way this started, the threats and the fear and the lies—he’d still choose Link a thousand times over. It doesn’t say much about him, but he’s glad he got caught that night.

He might not be glad he’s got to kill someone, but he’s glad he got caught, he decides.

He’s reached the point of actual intoxication by the time he stands up, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He hears Stevie ask, “You’re leaving?”

It isn’t exactly phrased as a question, but he still nods his head, wipes at the sweat beading on his forehead with the back of his hand. He tells her, “I’ll talk to you in the morning, okay? I’ve got to call Link about something.” And then he turns his attention to the rest of them, a group of bright, happy faces, and he tells them, “I had a great time, guys. Thank you.”

Tossing a couple of hundreds on the table before he leaves, he bends to kiss Cassie on the cheek and slips an extra hundred that she won’t find until the morning into her phone case before putting his phone up to his ear and ducking out as quickly as he can.

Outside, he sways. His head swims. The ringing of the phone comes to a halt before he hears Link’s voice, clean and clear and not exactly happy. He doesn’t need him happy, just willing to let Rhett disrupt his night. “Can I come over?”

“Well, look at us,” Link chuckles coolly. “You sound drunk.”

“I am.”

“Should I come get you?” He debates it, decides he doesn’t feel like waiting on Link to show up. When he doesn’t answer fast enough, Link just tells him, “I’ll see you when you get here.”

Rhett hangs up before Link gets a chance to.

It’s easy to flag down a cab, slide into the seat before he loses his footing both literally and metaphorically.

He rattles off Link’s address, and steadies himself with a few deep breaths. This ride through the city feels more normal. The lights and buildings and people all blur together, into one blend of nausea. Only this time he’s drunk, alcohol sloshing around in his stomach, coursing through his veins.

 “You aren’t gonna puke, are you?” The cab driver makes eye-contact with him through the rearview mirror, and Rhett swallows thickly, turns to look out the window again when he shakes his head. “Just tell me if you are, okay? So I can pull over for you.”

Rhett hums in his chest, letting him know he heard him, but he makes no attempt at conversation. He doesn’t trust his tongue right now.

The scenery outside of the window slowly becomes more and more familiar, and his stomach flips. There’s a second where he thinks he might have to ask the driver to pull over, but he takes some deep breaths, closes his eyes and focuses on the low hum of the radio, the vibrating of his phone in his pocket that hasn’t stopped for days now.

Link is probably still mad at him, he realizes. He’d spent twenty minutes yelling at Rhett this morning alone, but there isn’t enough energy in him to think about it. He doesn’t have it in him to second-guess himself at this moment.

Instead, he’s got to pay the cab driver, keep his balance long enough to type in the code to the gate and walk himself up the driveway. He makes it halfway, legs heavy, feeling _actually drunk_ as Lizzie had put it, before he sees Link in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs, walking out to help him. There’s a glow from the inside lights around him, and for an insane second, Rhett thinks he looks ethereal.

Wordlessly, Link wraps an arm around Rhett’s middle to help him keep his balance. Hysterical laughter bubbles out of Rhett’s throat, and he leans against Link hard, feeling his hands start to shake. Smooth skin underneath him, he presses in for more contact, sighing when he’s allowed. It feels nice, feels good and familiar.

He can’t help but ask, “Are you done being mad at me?”

“Let’s just get you inside, big guy.”

“If you’re done being mad at me, can you fuck me? I miss you.” The words spill out of him in a rush, a breath, and Link’s hands on him tighten just a little bit. He’s pressing in too close, making it hard for Link to balance them both, so he stands up straight, puts his arms out to prove he’s okay. Link pats him on the sides with both hands, walking Rhett the rest of the way into the house.

It’s warm inside, and Link is warm too, when Rhett crowds in too close, waiting until the door is closed and locked, the alarm set. Once Link turns around to face him, Rhett gets his hands on him again. He leans in for a kiss, is granted one that’s chaste and dry before Link is pulling away and ushering him further into the house. “Upstairs,” he says, and Rhett groans.

“Too far.” He tugs Link close again, watches his mouth curl up into a smile. “Just fuck me here.”

“I’ll fuck you when you prove to me you can walk all on your own,” Link tells him cruelly. When Rhett dives in for another kiss, he gets a hand on his chest instead, pushing him, urging him to walk over to the stairs. “Come on, there’s a very expensive bed upstairs that hasn’t gotten nearly enough use out of it lately.”

“Didn’t share it with anyone while I was gone?”

Link’s eyes go a bit wide, his eyebrows shooting up at the question, and there’s a grin on his face that Rhett can’t think about right now. He barely hears Link tell him, “Couldn’t find anybody big enough to fill in the dent you’ve left there.”

 He doesn’t know why the words settle in his stomach with everything else, why they make him want to bury his face in the crook of Link’s neck and stay there until everything makes sense again. He doesn’t know why they make him stumble a few steps, just barely catching himself on the railing. Link is quick to put a hand on his bicep, grip tight as he steadies Rhett again. The first few steps are hard, but he gets the hang of it after a second. He sways when he stops, so it’s easier to just rush forward, legs carrying him closer to Link’s room.

Behind him, he hears, “Good job, Rhett. Almost there.”

The words are sweet and warm, settling low in his gut in a flutter he ignores, taps down with everything else making his stomach roll. When Link’s hands find his body again, land somewhere on his hips, Rhett can’t help the groan he lets out.

He hopes Link is angry at him, still. He hopes he’s rough this time, that Rhett feels him for a while. There’s an ache that he doesn’t want to acknowledge, a pang in his chest, a fuzzy feeling in his fingertips and a lump in his throat that dissipates when Link touches him, when he murmurs, “Alright, baby, come on. Lay down.”

Rhett asks, “Are you going to fuck me now? I want you to.”

“I know you do.” But he’s not undressing—he’s just guiding Rhett to his side of the bed, eyes soft and kind while he does so, watching Rhett sit on the edge of the bed.

He smells like toothpaste, his hair still a little bit damp, and Rhett realizes after a beat: “Did I wake you up?”

“It’s late,” Link tells him with a grin and a nod.

Rhett reaches out for him, gets his hands on his waist and pulls him close, earning himself a kiss on the forehead and a hand carding through his hair. Pressing his mouth to Link’s stomach, he mumbles, “Let me make it worth your while, then.”

“You’re touchy tonight,” Link chuckles, but holds Rhett a little closer in response.

There’s a retort on the tip of Rhett’s tongue that gets lost when he decides to use his time leaving a trail of kisses down the expanse of Link’s torso instead.  

As soon as those deft fingers find their way onto Rhett’s skin, onto his shoulders, digging in and biting just as hard as they always do, Rhett’s mouth works too quickly, saying, “Those hands are so violent, and they don’t have to be.”

“Are they?” Link asks, and Rhett knows he’s teasing, looks up to see his smile, eyes crinkling in the corners.

Still, he keeps going, dragging the words along Link’s torso: “It feels so _good_ when you touch me. No one else can say that about you, can they?” The kinetic energy in those hands needed somewhere to land, and it chose violence. It chose chaos and fear and pain, and Rhett says, “Show me that’s not all you are, Link.”

He leans forward, feels Link’s shiver with his lips on his side, his teeth scraping while his hands spread across the expanse of his hips, fingers reaching as much of him as he can at once. It isn’t until Link’s hands shakily skirt down Rhett’s back, his fingers turning soft and sweet at last, that Rhett wraps his arms around him and tugs him even closer, burying his face in Link’s side.

Around a gasp, he hears Link say, “Don’t be so sure that it’s not.”

“It’s not,” Rhett promises. “I know it’s not, Link.”

Rhett earns himself a smile, and those hands cradling his head so Link can lean down, press their mouths together gently.

Kissing Link is always a jolt. It’s like the pop of a joint out of a socket, the sudden collision of being side-swiped, a tornado tearing a home apart in its wake. But this one—this one that Link lets linger, lets settle in his bones and wrap itself around his throat, ribbon through each and every one of his ribs—it’s something else entirely. It isn’t violent, doesn’t taste like blood and power.

It’s _kind_ and _sweet_ and _soft._

Link hums into it, and Rhett realizes with a flash of embarrassment that his eyes are wet.

“Nobody,” Link starts, hands still holding Rhett’s head carefully, body still pressed impossibly close to Rhett, impossibly warm against where Rhett is cold. He rubs his thumbs over Rhett’s temples, reminding him of the power he’s got, how easily he could hurt him. “Nobody has ever screwed me up like you, Rhett.”

There’s a chuckle that worms its way out of Rhett, a hot puff of breath against Link’s skin that punches a sound out of him, too. Rhett watches his eyes get a little wider, watches him suck in a breath right before he’s swooping in for another kiss. And this one is harsh, it’s wet and deep and it makes Rhett’s head spin, makes his stomach swoop and his heart flutter. It makes him gasp out a sound, breathy and light, and he doesn’t think before he tugs Link down, maneuvers them until they’re both on the bed, on their sides, holding onto each other too tightly.

They pull away in a rush, and Rhett tells him, “I could say the same about you.”

Between Rhett’s teeth sinking into the juncture of Link’s neck and shoulder and Link’s hips bucking up, Link groans, chuckling on the tail end of it, “You could.” His hands find their way to Rhett’s zipper, shaky fingers carefully working at getting his pants open. There’s a beat, a moment where Rhett’s too busy sucking a bruise into Link’s collarbone for him to realize Link’s wrapping a hand around his cock already. As Rhett is moaning into the feeling, Link breathes out a, “You wanna fuck me instead?”

Rhett can’t help how he bites a little too hard, rips a loud, “ _Fuck_ ,” from Link when he does, a gasp and a hand pushing at his head, pushing him away so they can meet in the middle for a kiss that tastes like desperation.

When they pull apart, when Rhett surges down and gets his mouth on Link’s chest instead, Link asks him breathily, “Hm, you wanna fuck me instead, Rhett? Put that big cock inside of me?”

“Keep talking,” Rhett murmurs, presses it into the line of skin he exposes as he tugs Link’s briefs down.

He hears a soft laugh, feels hands tangling in his hair, nails scratching over his scalp. The easiest thing in the world is easing those briefs off of his hips, sliding them down his legs carefully, and getting his mouth on the base of his cock. With a hum, Link slurs, “I can’t believe you sometimes, you know?” Those slender fingers tighten in Rhett’s hair. “Can’t believe you keep comin’ back.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

But, “You’ve already left once.”

Sloppily kissing a line up Link’s cock, Rhett promises, “I won’t do it again. I’m right here.”

Before Link can say anything, he gets his mouth around him. A garbled sound tumbles out of Link, ending on a high, breathy laugh as Rhett sinks his mouth further down the length of him. The weight of Link’s cock on his tongue is grounding, cuts through the dizziness. Lifting his soft palate, he gets far enough down that, when Link’s hips twitch up just the slightest bit, pushing through the last hint of resistance, it isn’t much of a challenge. He swallows, hears Link’s groan, his encouragement of, “Yeah, baby. Good gosh, Rhett.”

He tastes like skin, like Link, like power and greed and that high that comes after doing a job. Not being able to breathe like this, feeling Link’s fingers in his hair pushing just the slightest bit sends a shiver through him. He holds it for just a second, listens to Link’s pants, his groans, catalogues all of them for later, so he knows what to work for next time.

And when he pulls off, strings of spit sticking to everything, drool slicking his chin, Link says, “Look so pretty with my dick down your throat, boy. Do it again for me.”

The tone of his voice, the rise and fall of his chest, it cuts through Rhett, has him moaning, leaning down to  wiggle his tongue under the head of Link’s cock. When he’s rewarded with a gasp, a curse under his breath, he eases down again, opens up his throat. It’s easier this time, tears springing to his eyes as the urge to cough passes quickly. And Link still rushes forward, right at the end, right when Rhett’s hand falls away and there’s just a finger’s width space that he can’t quite get to.

“Good boy,” Link moans. “Fuck, so good, Rhett.”

Rhett’s head swims, his chest swelling with emotion at the praise, and he sucks, hard enough to have Link bucking up for real this time. He pulls off quickly, swallowing against his gag reflex, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He can’t help but smile up at Link, wide and happy, a laugh falling out of him before he can stop it, and he’s still drunk.

He feels good. He feels happy and full and emotional about a lot more than he needs to be right now. Link looks good spread out on the bed, cock wet from Rhett’s mouth, face flush, hands shaking when they reach out to tug Rhett to him again.

Right before their mouths meet, Link tells him, “I fucking love you.”

It knocks the breath right out of Rhett’s chest.

His face is serious when Rhett pulls away from him, when he straddles his hips and drags the tips of his fingers down Link’s torso, over his collarbones, down to his sternum, where he presses in with his thumb just to hear Link hiss. Eyes hooded and dark, lips red and swollen, and Rhett doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything more beautiful in his life. He swoops in for another kiss, not letting this one be anything but soft and sweet like that first one was for him.

He can’t say the words back. Not yet. If he loves Link—verily and richly and wholly, he _does_ —then he loves all the darkness he’s come in contact with, too. He loves the parts of himself he doesn’t touch, the parts of himself he’s hiding from, running from.

And he can’t—

The words stay clogged in his throat, in the parts of his psyche that he’s been avoiding all this time.

When he furrows his brows, opens his mouth and snaps it shut with a sigh, Link smiles softly, eyes dancing from Rhett’s mouth to his eyes. Quickly, hands reaching for Rhett’s thighs, he says, “Come on, big guy. Fuck me.”

They’re leaning into each other, Rhett’s heart pounding in his chest when Link’s fingers creep up his thighs, coming to rest at his hips before their lips just barely touch.

The doorbell startles him. He pulls back, head whipping around to look at the bedroom door, all of his senses poised and waiting for something to happen. Just barely catching a glimpse of Link shutting his eyes, rubbing his hands over his face in frustration, Rhett climbs off of him when the bell rings for a second time.

“Who would be coming over this late?”

There isn’t a third ringing of the bell. The whole house falls silent for just a second before Rhett hears the crack and crash of the front door being kicked open.


	11. The Beast

Life is fragile.

Like the soft, spongy bones of a newborn, if you push too hard, it’ll snap.

Rhett watches as the bones in Link’s hand snap.

His fingers break at the knuckles as they collide with hard cheekbones, and it’s all Rhett can do to pull him away from the body lying on the floor below him. For a second, Rhett thinks that’s all it is now, just a body on the floor underneath Link, who’s got spit flying out of his mouth with every word he angrily bites out. It’s a blur of syllables, mashed together sloppily while he pants and growls around the sounds.

The face is a mess of blood and Link’s spit. The chest is rattling as they breathe. It’s a painting—the vivid result of that violence always humming in Link’s hands. And Rhett gets his forearms under Link’s arms, tugs him back so he can catch his breath and Rhett can look at his hand before he fucks himself up even more.

In the moments between making it downstairs and coming face-to-face with who caused all of this, Link didn’t bother to put on anything other than his boxer briefs. They’re stained with spots of blood now, dark and sticky, turning the grey a sickly brown color. Rhett watches Link tighten his legs around the hips under his, and Rhett loses his grip on him, grunting when Link lunges forward again, finding a fistful of hair before he tugs and smashes the man’s head back down on the tile floor below him.

“Get up,” Rhett’s saying, hands shaky and useless, adrenaline buzzing through him. “Get up, Link. Come on. Help me get him tied up.”

The words catch Link’s attention, cut through the panting that fills the room as all three of them struggle against one another. Link’s up and on his feet in seconds, wiping bloody hands through his hair, over his face without thinking about it. The one that’s broken is trembling and he’s careful of it, wincing as he shakes the pain out.

“You come into _my_ fucking home,” he says, turning to look down at the mess of a man on his floor, body reeling forward like he’s going to hit him again. Instead, he stops himself short, cradling his hand to his chest with a laugh that drips off his tongue like honey, slow and thick and rattling around the room.

“Go get a chair from the dining room.” Link turns his head to look at him. He’s got a dark, slick smudge of blood down his neck.  Swallowing hard, Rhett doesn’t pay mind to it. “And something to tie him up with.”  

There’s a pause where Rhett knows Link wants to say something, but he doesn’t, lets the silence hang on among all of them, peppered with the raspy sounds of lungs dragging in gulps of air when they can. Rhett knows Link’s struggling to let Rhett take control like this. It’s a power balance that Link’s on the losing end of right now, and that’s hard for him. In this atmosphere, the slick, coppery smell of blood fouling everything around them, Link is used to being the one in control; and for the rug to be pulled right out from underneath him, Rhett can only imagine it’s unsettling. Rhett can only imagine that it’s _angering_.

After staring Rhett down, his chest heaving, his jaw clenching, Link leaves. And the hiccupped second where Rhett thought Link would punch him next is passed, left hanging hollow around him instead.

Without the energy buzzing off of Link, the room falls quiet except for the wheezing, rattling sound of their intruder trying to breathe. It fills the room, sucking the breath right out Rhett’s own lungs. It’s funny how he can’t breathe like this, without Link there next to him. In their mess, in the midst of their own madness, their own chaos, he can’t breathe without Link.

But he doesn’t focus on that. Instead, he surveys the damage of the room, eyes scanning over everything but the body trying desperately to get itself up an off the floor, to fight back despite the tears slicking its face, the blood stringing off of him in nauseating lines. He looks at the house instead.

The scene before him is macabre.

The expensive tile floor is flecked with blood, painted with smears and handprints that match Link’s hands perfectly, that match the cheek pressed into them. The couch, plush and comfortable as it is, has been pushed out of the way, smashed into the wall behind it, and it’s got blood on it, too—Rhett vaguely remembers his own hands pushing at it, getting on the back of the light grey cushions to rear forward and get a bat out of reckless hands. Lights haven’t been turned on, but the curtains are open and moonlight filters in, giving everything a haze, a glow, turning the blood black as he looks at it all.

When he finally chances a look down at Link’s handy work, takes in the bruises, the swelling, the almost unrecognizable, gnarled face he’s been left with, Rhett’s stomach rolls. The faint sound of a bat colliding with a skull rings in his head, a memory from the havoc that he’d lost in the whole interaction. He knows this bastard came in with a bat, too cowardly to face them without a weapon, and he knows Link had the bat in his own hand before the first swing was taken.

The force of the bat had the guy on the floor in a crumpled pile, writhing while he cradled his side, and Rhett knows broken ribs are causing the wheezing now. Link is quick and he fights dirty, leaves no room for mistakes.

It was an unfair fight, right from the start.

And Rhett remembers the sight of Link’s lithe body snaking around the thick expanse of the one on the floor. It takes him a second, but there’s the unmistakable sight of teeth marks, a chunk of meat missing from a thick arm. It’s the worst thing he’s seen, and for a second he thinks he’s going to puke.

Rhett can’t decide if Link bit a chunk out of him out of defense or dominance, and he doesn’t know at this point if the idea of either one of them makes him feel any better about the situation.

Feeling like he’s watching his own body, his own flesh and blood writhing on Link’s floor, Rhett says, “Why’d you even bother coming? You were never going to win.” The name is on his tongue, and it dies out before he can say it, his confidence crumbling to pieces. He knows he doesn’t hear Rhett, that the blood coursing through his head is too loud right now, but it fills the silence with something, even if his own voice is shaking around the edges.

Rhett watches carefully as he twists, tries rolling onto his stomach, and his limbs shake under the pressure. He won’t get far, not with how hard Link was hitting him, with how his chest is still rattling as he breathes. Blood smears, stringing off of his face when he lifts his head.

Link’s voice suddenly echoing through the halls of the house startles Rhett. It takes a second, but Rhett realizes he’s humming a tune he can’t place. It’s eerie, made worse when he gets closer, when the dragging of the chair legs on the floor cuts through the humming, making the hair on Rhett’s arms stand up. It’s all for show, he knows, and it works with the way their intruder whimpers involuntarily, with how he chokes on the sound, garbles around a mouthful of blood and mucus.

Rhett’s nauseous. The coppery smell finally hits him, the adrenaline of the night wearing down, the alcohol he’s still got sloshing around in his stomach running its course.

He can’t do this.

Not tonight.

Link spares him a look, a wink that means he’s holding the reigns again, as he walks into the room.

Rhett watches him work quickly, getting the chair in place and crouching down just in time to get a bloody hand on the guy’s shoulder, helping him roll onto his stomach at last. Pitifully, whining while he does it, he gets up on his arms, holding himself up while Link steps over him wordlessly, gets his arms around his middle to help him up, careful of his hand.

He cares for his own wounds while preparing the lamb for the slaughter.

Once he’s on his feet, wobbly and unsteady, Rhett catches the other side so they can get him onto the chair.

The countdown starts in Rhett’s head.

“Fuck off,” the guy spits, wasting his breath, drool and blood pooling out of his mouth in a slimy mess. The exertion it took is evident on his face. His head falls forward, his chin touching his chest.

Link’s laugh is harsh and cold, and he plops him down unceremoniously onto the chair, a mess of limbs. “I’m not sure you’re in the position of a man who has the authority to say that.”

They tie his legs to the chair, Rhett’s fingers clumsy and dumb the whole time. And he catches a glimpse of Link working quickly, efficiently, his knots strong and holding much better than Rhett’s. There’s sweat dripping down Rhett’s temples, and Link reaches out to wipe at it before softly askin, “You ready?”

His voice is oddly sweet, settling around in Rhett’s stomach with all the other stuff making him nauseous. It doesn’t belong, not in this chaos, and he wishes Link would go back to being harsh. He wishes Link would stop looking at him like he’s the most important thing in the room, in the house, in the whole world. Link’s got treasures stacked away somewhere in this house, and somehow, even in the midst of this, Rhett feels like he’s the most valuable thing here to Link. It’s fucked up. He hates it.

He doesn’t think about it.

He doesn’t think about anything as he nods his head, pulls the last knot he’s tying taut.

They both stand. Link cradles his arm to his chest and Rhett wipes both of his hands over his face, turns away from the half-conscious man they’ve got tied half-heartedly to one of their dining room chairs.

And for just a little while, Rhett carves out enough time for himself to stare at what’s left of Frank.

Rhett used to want to be a paleontologist. Growing up, he thought digging through dirt and discovering things, bones and fossils and fragments of history that got buried under years and years of life going on above it sounded like the best thing he could possibly do with his life.

But right now, elbow deep in his own shit, Link’s shit, _Frank’s_ shit, digging through piles that they’d made for themselves, trying desperately to find something, anything at all, that makes sense—this isn’t the best thing he could be doing with his life. And really, what’s the difference between what he’s doing right now and being a paleontologist?

Link hands him a gun, and he _realizes_.

The difference is that he’s not looking for dead things. He’s not looking for hollowed out remnants of life. He’s not piecing together history.

He’s staring down a man who’s alive, whose heart is still beating in his chest, and he’s supposed to be the force that ends that. It’s supposed to be him that buries this man under piles of dirt. Someone else is going to dig him up later. Someone else is going to piece together his history later.

He watches Link put his hands on thick, trembling thighs as he leans in closely. There’s a beat of silence before a shocked, raspy gasp falls out of the man and Link’s mouth turns up into a dark smile. Standing back up, Link says, “You interrupted my night, Frank. I was about to get fucked.”

“Link,” Rhett says, the sound catching in his throat, but he gets a hand help up in his direction, a request to be quiet.

“I’m still hard, man,” Link groans, his good hand trailing down his torso. “You kicked my front door in right as he was about to slide his cock inside of me.”

He is still hard, Rhett notices for the first time since this started. Or maybe he’s hard again, reminiscent of that first night, when Rhett had accused him of the very thing. Link gets off on this life, lets it twist around him and consume him in a way that Rhett keeps at an arm’s length. So, it wouldn’t shock him if that’s what’s doing it for him right now, all of this reaching its culmination.

Frank opens his mouth, lets a buildup of phlegm and blood drip down his chin as his broken jaw works around the syllables, “’M gonna fuckin’ kill you.”

It tears a laugh out of Link, whose kindness has run its course, who grabs hold of Frank’s head by his hair and tugs him up straight enough so he can look him in the eyes and tell him, “I’ve been waitin’ for fucking months, man. I really don’t think you will.” And when he turns him, forces him to look at Rhett, “I’ve got my filthy paws on the one man you thought would be a match for me. You really think all those other little boys you sent my way were even gonna come close?”

Rhett hears the words, feels his pulse in his head, in the palm still cradling the handle of the gun.

“Cause listen,” Link says, and he crouches down, jerks Frank’s head away from him. He lowers his voice. “Listen, Rhett was your best bet. Rhett got his hands on it, Frank. Rhett had his hands on everything you ever wanted, man. But he likes me more.”

There’s a deep, wheezing breath pulled into Frank’s lungs, and he rolls his head back, a shaky smile worming its way onto his face. His chest heaves as he chuckles, and Rhett could pull the trigger right now just looking at him like this.

But Link turns his attention to Rhett. He grins.

 He leans in real close to Frank again.

 Smile growing, he whispers, “Rhett’s gonna kill you, Frank.”

The walls come crashing around them all as Link stands. The timer has run out. The pendulum has stopped swinging. There’s nowhere left to run, no other corners to hide in. All that’s left is his sweaty palms and the gun resting in one innocently. For just a moment, he’s left in silence, no eyes on him as Frank’s fall shut and Link’s land on his own body, hands wiping at splashes of blood and sweat. It’s easier to breathe like this, without an audience.

Still, his palm throbs around the gun, his pulse reminding him what he’s supposed to be doing. If he remembers the faces of the other boys, the men Frank sent for them, it’s okay. The one hiding in his home, and the way he’d spat out the admission that Frank wanted him dead pops in first—and it’s vivid enough to send a shock through Rhett, a realization.

Frank would kill him, given the chance. Frank wouldn’t be hesitating to put a bullet through Rhett’s head right now. He wouldn’t have tied Rhett up, wouldn’t have given him this many chances. He’d have snuck into Rhett’s home at night, kicked down his bedroom door, and pulled the trigger. That’s the difference between Frank and Link.

And Link—gosh, Link loves Rhett. He said it tonight, didn’t he? Earlier, right before this all happened. He’s said it before, in different ways, too. Every time he asked Rhett that question, the sly, ‘Does it feel good?’ after a job. When he’d washed the blood out of Rhett’s hair after killing Raul.

Asking him to stay. Finding him again when he _didn’t_.

And now this: stringing up a man ready to filet Rhett, giving Rhett the opportunity to end this for himself, to separate this from what he’s done with Link. He doesn’t have to be a killer with Link. That’s Link’s job. So he’ll set this one up for Rhett, give him the gun, and let him do this one himself.

The silence doesn’t last, and with the rising of Link’s head, his eyes landing on Rhett again, comes laughter from Frank. Shallow and pathetic, it’s there, coming in waves as he heaves in breaths to fuel it, keep it echoing around the house.

Link sidles up next to Rhett, gets so close that Rhett feels him pressed against him. The telltale signs of this being exactly what he wanted all along press into Rhett’s thigh as Link’s arms guide his up, get his body in position to aim and shoot. Rhett stands stock still, waiting for something to happen, for anything else to happen.

“Pull the trigger, Rhett.”

Link’s voice is calm, quiet, steady. He doesn’t know how. The look on Frank’s face alone, the glimmer in his eyes, the laughter trembling out of his chest—it’s all enough to have Rhett’s hands shaking.

“Come on, baby,” Link’s saying, breath tickling his ear. “Pull the trigger.”

They’re here because of Frank. They’re standing where they are, Rhett with a gun in his hands and the man he loves—a goddamn fucking _assassin_ —whispering encouragements in the bellowing silence of the empty living room. He’s here because of Frank, ever since day one. The dominos fell because of Frank.

Somewhere, someone would say he deserves this.

Perhaps the families of the men he senselessly sent out would say he deserves this. A filthy, selfish man sending their boys out to die, all for his own personal gain, and Rhett can end it all right now. Rhett can stop the bloodbath with one single synopsis firing in his brain.

His finger trembles as he hovers it over the trigger.

“I can’t,” Rhett whispers back, hearing his voice shake. He hears the thickness in his throat, feels his heart beating impossibly fast in his chest, feels the wetness in his eyes. Link puts a hand on his shoulder, and Rhett tells him, “Do it for me.”

Before he can get his hands to move and hand the gun to Link, get his finger to slide off the trigger, Link is telling him, “No. You do it. I told you this is your fight, sweetheart.”

Through it, Frank is still laughing.

The tears pooling in Rhett’s eyes fall before he can stop them, shuddering breaths following after them. He tries to blink them away, tries to steady his hands, calm himself down. Link is right there, right next to him. He’s going to be okay. Link will make sure that he’s okay.

Right?

If he trembles apart, Link will put him back together. That’s what this means, isn’t it? That’s the trust he’s putting out there. If he does this, if he pulls this trigger, Link is going to pick up the pieces. Link is going to be his paleontologist, digging through the piles of dirt and finding fragments of Rhett, putting him back together bit-by-bit until he’s whole again. It won’t be exactly him, it won’t be the same him as before. It’ll be new pieces, what’s left after the him before this rots away. And he’ll be okay, even like that, even with new layers of himself, with new, raw bits that Link’s shaky hands will fit together carefully.

They’ll go to Georgia when this is all done, sit his parents down and give them the explanation they deserve. They’ll find names for all the men Frank sent out for them, donate money to their families for their losses.  

Rhett will tell Link he loves him, too.

He’s going to shatter like a glass on a too-expensive tile floor, but Link will put him back together. And on the other side of this, there’s nothing but good to be found. After this, he doesn’t have to kill anyone else.

Sucking in a sharp, hesitant breath, he widens his stance, uses his shoulder to wipe at fat, wet tears rolling down his cheeks. When he lines his aim back up, he doesn’t look Frank in the eyes. But he does hear him still laughing, muffled through blood and spit. It’s pitiful, and Rhett feels it rattling through him.

And then, the animalistic turn it takes, his throat ripping around a scream, his eyes bulging out of his skull from the strain.

It’s the last thing Rhett hears before he pulls the trigger.

The sound shakes through him, leaves everything feeling hollow and echoed, the ghost of Frank’s yell filling the room, the house, the whole of him and everywhere he exists.

 The sounds and sights and smells are already haunting his nightmares, they’re already etched on the insides of his eyelids. Frank goes limp, and for a second, an impossible second, Rhett thinks he hears an orchestral swell.

There’s blood everywhere, fragments of skull and bits of brain, and he hears Link gag beside him. The floor behind Frank is splattered with the mess, even more so than the area Link had him in before.

Rhett gags too, at the sight, feels his stomach lurch, his throat going dry. Link’s still got a hand on his shoulder, is rubbing small circles there with his thumb.

Around a dry heave, he tells Rhett, “You did good, baby. You did good.”

\--

The house is still echoing with Frank’s scream once they’ve got everything cleaned up. His body, which Link hadn’t let Rhett look at once it was all said and done, is in a box somewhere. He doesn’t know what Link has planned for it, and he doesn’t care, either.

He did his part.

The sun is rising, Rhett’s stomach has finally stopped rolling, and Link is trying to mix pancake batter with one hand while Rhett downs his third cup of coffee. It’s not doing much more than turning to sludge in his veins, but at least he feels muddy now instead of nauseous. And when Link pours the still slightly chunky pancake batter into the hot griddle, Rhett’s legs feel strong enough for him to stand with a snort, taking the bowl out of his hands.

“For one thing,” he says, getting in Link’s space, “this needs more water.” Getting it under the tap, he steals the fork Link was using and works at some of the chunks. “And for another thing, we should be sleeping.”

“Go to sleep if you want to sleep.” Link’s smirking, and Rhett knows that’s the last thing he wants. He’s wired, twitchy and jumpy and still high on adrenaline, and he’s ready to drag Rhett down with him.

Once he’s got the batter smooth enough to work, Rhett hands it back to him. He tosses Link a look, moves to grab for his coffee again before there’s a hand circling around his wrist, stopping him from getting too far out of Link’s space.

His eyes are soft, and his mouth opens to say something, but Rhett shuts him up with a, “Don’t mess with me; I killed a man today.” It’s an ill-timed joke, but Link appreciates it nonetheless, smiling wide and shaking his head in disbelief.

There’s a knot in Rhett’s stomach, but the tension is defused at least a little bit now.

He still feels shaky, a bit lost, but the process of putting him back together begins with Link’s low, “Oh, come on, Rhett. I eat boys like you for breakfast.”

Rhett presses in a little closer, buries the smile he doesn’t want to admit is there in Link’s hair. On his exhale, he asks, “You promise?” and presses the line of his body against Link’s.

They shouldn’t be acting like this right now, not with a dead body still fresh in Rhett’s mind, not with Link’s hands still violent and angry. Not with Rhett’s just as violent now, just as angry. Still, it’s nice to lean into Link, to press their mouths together in a sweet kiss, drink him in for just a second. The hum he lets out against Rhett’s mouth tastes like an apology, and it’s enough for right now.

They pull apart, and they eat pancakes.

And halfway through licking syrup off of his fingers, Rhett remembers: “So what was that code, anyway? The one Frank wanted.”

“Eat,” Link says, not bothering to look up from where he’s scrolling through something on his phone.

“Tell me.”

A silence washes over them, over the whole house, drowning out even the echoes Rhett still hears faintly.

After a beat, Link looks up at him, cocks his head to the side. “Why does it matter?”

“Because he just died over it. Because I’d like to know.”

“He died because he was a bad person,” Link argues. It doesn’t change Rhett’s mind, and when he locks eyes with Link, gives him a pointed look, he sighs, “It was the code to my basement.”

There’s a hand motion that’s meant to wave the comment off, and a bit of an eye roll as he takes another bite of his slightly burnt pancakes. Beyond that, there’s a blush. An actual blush, real and red and right on Link’s face as he stabs at his pancakes, avoiding eye-contact with Rhett.

It tugs a laugh from him, from the depths of his belly, and he’s tossing his head back, saying, “You’re joking, man! You’ve got to be joking!”

But he mumbles under his breath, wipes a hand over his tired face, and Rhett realizes he _isn’t_ joking. It’s sobering, and Rhett shakes his head, letting the last of his hysterical laughter tumble out of him as he locks eyes with Link.

The question is on the tip of his tongue, but Link is quicker than him. He shrugs his shoulders, says, “I keep all of my stuff in there. I’ve got a key to it, so I don’t use the code very often. I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget it.”

“And this is just common knowledge? ‘Link Neal keeps the code to his multimillion dollar fortune on a slip of paper somewhere in his house.’” Knowing Link now, it doesn’t seem like something too far out of the ordinary. But still: “Link, this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

 Another shoulder shrug, and Rhett notices his blush is still going strong. He tells Rhett, “I used to keep it in my wallet.”

Rhett doesn’t believe that, but, around a laugh, Link insists: “I did, and I had the word ‘basement’ written on it. My wallet was stolen by a couple guys who knew who I was over at George’s one night, and they connected the dots. After that, word got out to a few people, including Frank. And I guess he figured if he could get his hands on the code, he could off me and steal all my crap.”

He snaps his fingers, points at Rhett. “And that’s where you come in. Once his boy Mike failed him, he gets you to come in and steal the code for him.”

“Or he could have just had me pick the lock.”

“He didn’t want to have to share. Plus, Frank was ambitious. He had bigger balls than everyone, except for when it mattered.” The tone changes, and Link cocks his head to the side, scoops up another bite of pancake while Rhett thinks about what Link’s just told him.

It’s absurd to think that a man like Link, who holds no qualms with snapping a neck, who thinks quicker than anyone Rhett’s ever met in his life, who owns a disgustingly large amount of one-of-a-kind stolen items couldn’t so much as remember the code to the door to his basement. But Rhett looks over at him, takes in his bruised knuckles, the floppy hair still drying from their shower earlier, the burnt pancakes he’s doing his best to choke down, and he realizes that it’s exactly what he should expect from Link. At the end of the day, no matter how many people Link’s killed, he’s still Link. He’s still going to feed Rhett cherries while they go over floor plans just so he can press up and cut Rhett off mid-sentence to mash a half-eaten cherry into his mouth. He’s still going to take up too much of the bed, sticking his cold feet to Rhett’s thighs in the middle of the night. He’s still going to lose his car keys ten minutes after they get home.

Forgetting a code he doesn’t use often is absolutely something Link would do. Of course that’s what Frank was after.

“Well,” Rhett says, and he pauses, taking a second to work through everything in his head. He chooses instead to take another bite of his pancakes.

After a sip of coffee, Rhett decides to continue a conversation from earlier, one that got cut off too soon, and say, “I love you too, by the way.”

The smile on Link’s face is the brightest smile Rhett’s ever seen in his life.

There’s a knot in his chest, a thick feeling that he fears is never going to go away. The smell of blood is still in his nostrils, and the faint, echoing sound of Frank’s scream is trailing behind everything, but Link’s smile drowns all of that out for a little while.

And when Link stands, makes his way over to Rhett to straddle him in the chair, his hands sliding into Rhett’s hair to angle him how he wants, the kiss is sweet from more than just the syrup.

When this all started, Frank had told Rhett not to let Link get his hands on him, not to get cornered.

It was terrible advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd just like to extend a huge thank you for the unwavering support and encouragement of everyone through this. it's been a wild ride, and i couldn't be prouder of something. thank you so much.


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